


Mimosas and Muscles

by TheRogueLibrarian



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Harry Potter, Adultery, Alcoholic Harry Potter, Allusions to Rape/Non Con of OC(s), As In Author Forgot About Romance For 80'000 Words, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Binge Drinking, Bottom Harry, Crossover Pairings, Dimension Travel, Dubious Consent, Dursley Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, HYDRA Trash Party, Harry is a Gay Drunk, Harry-centric, Human Experimentation, Is He Fit To Be A Parent?, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Let's just face it; Mimosas are sentient, Love Triangles, M/M, Marvel Universe, Master of Death, Mastery of Powers, Mentions of Past Domestic Abuse for OC, Mild Smut, Mind Stone Experimentation, Misgendering On Purpose, No Glasses Harry Potter, Not Ready To Be A Parent, Parent Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, SHIELD, Secret Identity, Secret Relationships, Sexuality Crises, Slow Burn, Spider-man Timeline Is Ignored, Stark Incorporated, Threesome - F/M/M, Updates Every Saturday, War, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Writing Style Changes, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 87,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueLibrarian/pseuds/TheRogueLibrarian
Summary: ON HIATUS...Mimosas and Muscles is the apt inspiration/title for this fic concerning Harry Potter, semi-alcoholic waitress of Harlem with a wish for normality, and the effects of (plot-important) gayness which cancels out said wish. Thus, let us watch as chaos ensues.OrWatch Harry Luna Evans try to keep his identity secret, life intact and homosexual fever on the downlow (wink wink we're looking at you Mr. Mysterious Muscles) whilst juggling work, good and not-so-good friends, possible children, romantic affairs he never should have signed up for, Tony Stark trying to give him moral advice (like what the heck Tony, get out of my house), and magic powers which are out to get him. And, yes, being Death's Bitch  is no walk in the park either.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> OVERALL WARNINGS: Canonical Violence of Avengers Movies, References to Rape/Non-con of OC(s), References to Child Abuse, Dubious Consent. 
> 
> A/N: Just a few things. I know next to nothing about the Avengers, I am a fan but I don't remember much about the movies, so if I get something wrong don't blame me. I do believe that transgender is a real thing, but Ariana is not transgender (she is a character you won't meet for a while, but I thought I'd just try to get ahead of it), she is traumatised and only believes herself to be safe as a boy. Thanks for reading! :) I do try my best. Also, like many of my fics, Harry does not have glasses, for actually no reason whatsoever (I think I'm an 'anti-glasses Harry Potter' supporter). No!Glasses!Harry
> 
> A/N: Also, sorry for chickening out and deleting the fic earlier (for those old souls of Mimosas and Muscles), as I may have said in the Tags like a goober kinda bad at self esteem lol.

A little over two years ago, when Harry had applied for a job at the Department of Mysteries, he never would have guessed they would have accepted him. It had seemed too good to be true, especially with the public on the tipping point of turning on him and the expectations of him becoming an Auror whispered in his ear by every sycophant. Harry should have guessed that they'd use him as a test subject and not as an equal. Hadn't that been how it always was?

  
  


In a way that shouldn't have surprised him, his Potter Luck flared up again like an old army injury. Harry had foolishly assumed that because Dumbledore and Voldemort were dead he'd finally be free of the constant curse that kissed at his robes: the curse of his Potter Luck, his Potter Lips, his Potter Promises. Harry had allowed that because Halloween (fingers crossed it continues to be that way) no longer held any bad omens—the bad luck that occurred every Hallows Eve starting with his parent's death—Harry would no longer hold them either.

  
  


Should he have been more shocked when they told him to drink a potion and then shoved him through the Veil? Fortunately his Potter Luck caught him and, like always, he had the bad luck to get into a bad situation and the good luck to survive it. What a tedious balance it was. Harry met Death... or he thought he did. He couldn't quite remember the meeting, or what was said, or even what Death looked like. Only that Death was real, Harry was scorned for being its Master, and he was sentenced to an eternity in something called the 'Marvel' universe.

  
  


Harry didn't like the sound of that.

  
  


The first thing he'd recognised when he opened his eyes was the smell of smoke and the crackle of an open fire. A few moments later he realised the burning feeling on his back was his own clothes on fire, along with his wand. Everything was burnt to a crisp and he distinctly recalled the warm haunting cackle of his _bestest friend Death_ sounding eerily, and perhaps purposely, similar to Voldemort.

  
  


It had been night and bitingly cold. Even in a strange place, Harry could recognise the middle of winter. Snow fell softly, consolingly, as if the magnificence of the weather event could compensate for the cold that ate mercilessly at his naked skin. His body had burned with the scratching wind and his fingers had tingled in the beginnings of numbness. Harry had looked around at a city he had never seen before, a city in ruins. The streets were empty, a faint sound of someone crying or screaming in the distance, and Harry was surrounded by overturned cars, large grey towers and complexes with shattered windows, and a small fire he could see in the distance, smoke tunnelling upwards almost tauntingly.

  
  


He had been homeless, with no name, no money, and no clue where he was. But Harry had always been an adaptive boy and he was no stranger to poverty or even sleeping on park benches and alcoves (thanks to his numerous attempts at running away from the Dursleys). Perhaps now was slightly worse, with no clothes and no identification, but Harry made do. For the first couple of weeks he slept on benches, visited shelters for the homeless, started to navigate his way around the Muggle world, and thanked Death (however begrudgingly) that the country spoke English. Harry hadn't had an identity and he knew that was a dangerous thing. As a child he hadn't learned much about America, didn't even know if they had a Prime Minister, so was slightly lost in this new world.

  
  


It didn't take Harry long to realise he was in a different universe. The main clue was that the year was no longer 1999, but 2012, and that some of the things in this place were different. The first time Harry had read about the alien attack that had just occurred in New York he had almost jumped out of his seat, skimming the text on a late Sunday night in the library, and finding it reserved the next day. A whole war had occurred, with lives lost, and people who had never existed to him dying before he even knew about them. It made him feel so small. After that he went around town, tasting things, drinking a variety of flavoured teas, trying to see if these were different also, to see if this world had lost something it could never return. There was a distinct possibility that Death placed him into a dangerous universe on purpose, set on revenge against his _master_. The most concerning change of all was that his favourite brand of tea tasted like sulphur, a stark difference from the soothing temperament of the previous world’s one. Perhaps Harry was an optimist, but he liked to think the people here were different—maybe less prejudiced than those from his last world—and after a few weeks of moping, he couldn't help but wonder if this place could be a fresh start for him.

  
  


Sure, he missed Ginny and his best friends, and it would be quite impossible to find someone similar to Luna, but in his old world he had stagnated and become complacent. Maybe a new place and a new challenge would be good for him. It took Harry just over a month of visiting libraries and finding suitable people to ask about the new world, but he eventually realised the gist of what he needed to do. He needed a green card. And he needed a citizenship.

  
  


It had been a relief when Harry found a way to use his magic once more, without his wand. He had been stumbling about drunk after having stolen some poor sod's grog and had come across a fight in an alleyway. Harry's saviour complex had flared like a bad allergic reaction and, on instinct and with no hesitation offered by his inebriated system, he stunned both people with his hands raised in a shocking feat of wandless magic. After that, Harry just believed it was possible and somehow...it worked. He didn't question it—didn't try to—because he didn't want it to stop and for him to return to a magicless existence.

  
  


With the return of his abilities, he had _Confounded_ a low level member of the government, managing to finagle a citizenship under the name of 'Harry Evans'. Harry never would have picked the name in his old world since it could be so easily tracked back to his mother's maiden name, but chose to do it here since he—and his past—did not exist here. It helped him remember and recognise his mother's memory, something he cherished in his heart.

  
  


He managed to acquire a job at a local cafe as a 'waitress'; Harry had insisted on the proper form of address 'waiter' as he was _not_ a girl, but his boss would simply laugh in her cryptic way and continue on. His boss sometimes said that Harry just had a 'pushover' type of vibe, and that's why she said the things she did. Harry wished she could have seen him kill Voldemort, even if it still haunted him, since then she would see he wasn't as harmless as she assumed.

  
  


He wasn't a girl. No. He was _all man_ , but apparently inter-dimensional travel—or whatever crazy antics had occurred—had slightly altered his facial features and bodily aesthetics. Instead of the sharp and steady jaw of James Potter and the Anglican cheekbones of an aristocrat lending the ability to trace a long dynasty of purebloods in his features, Harry was left with the soft, _girlish_ , gentle features of his mother and a more ovular shaped face. His lips were fuller, _lusher_ —apparently like “a ripe berry ready to be picked” in his boss Jamie's godly opinion—and his nose was smaller and softer. Harry's hips were curved in a womanly way, which forced him to wear looser clothing so no one would see, but that were most definitely male so as to soothe his injured self image. His skin was, thankfully, still the olive tone of his father and his eyes were the same icy green of his mother. Harry's hair was still raven black and fell in spikes like it ought to, but the one time he had lengthened it, just to see how it looked, it had fallen straight and, dare he say it, _beautifully_ to his untrained eye. Harry was so... effeminate in his looks now and it worried and embarrassed him more than he could articulate.

  
  


The universe transformation had thankfully not changed any _other_ parts of himself, except Harry often internally complained that his arms were too thin, but he knew that was because he did no other exercise than walks from his small rented place to _Jamie's Café,_ not because of this cursed body. Harry was still awfully suspicious as to _why_ his body had morphed in such a way, but could find no way to contact Death and as such had no way to reverse the change, so eventually he just filed it in the folder in his mind labelled 'things I will never know'. It was a larger folder than he would have wanted by a long shot. Most of it was filled with Hermione's long winded explanations that had gone in one ear and out the other, relegated to a section called 'Hermione's attempts to explain the unexplainable'.

  
  


Unexplainable to Harry anyway.

  
  


Harry lived a pretty simple life—a life he had always wanted. He had a job—a nice simple job—of remembering orders and bringing out plates for people, sometimes giving compliments to the chef on the behalf of someone grateful or polite. He washed dishes part-time when their dishwashers were busy or at school, the job almost muscle memory now, resurrecting long afternoons at the Dursley’s. He spent his afternoons in parks or museums, seeing sights of the muggle world he had never seen before, going out to the ocean for the first time, seeing movies with money he could scrounge together, eating caramel popcorn and becoming addicted to it. Harry tried to learn math and basic science, read books with saved up money he had spare from the rent or bills, trying to catch up on what he missed in his education when he was ensconced in the magical world and separated from the muggle one. Every Sunday, his only day off, he would practice his wandless magic; his imagination being the only limit as he slowly learnt that his magic was like a muscle and got stronger if he worked on it.

  
  


Harry’s one friend, Michael, was an Asian guy with brown hair and aqua eyes, legs spindly like a spider’s, and was almost two heads taller than Harry. He ran a bowling alley by day and disco rink by night... how that worked still confounded Harry to this day. Mike had originally thought Harry was a girl—like every other bloody citizen of America—but at least, unlike Jamie, he had apologised afterwards.

  
  


Michael failed to teach Harry how to bowl and Harry failed to teach Michael _and himself_ how to draw (a new hobby he had taken up once he moved into his flat). They sometimes went to the pub together, drank until they both forgot the things they needed to, and walked home together on weak legs, both following each other and most likely getting lost. Harry knew about Michael's psycho ex: an abusive girl who'd spun him under her spell and left him once he was broken with an empty house, broken arm and four thousand dollars missing out of his bank account. Michael knew about Harry's childhood: the small boy who lived under the stairs, about his life as a homeless man for a few months, and how he was uneducated in the ways of the world, something his good friend thankfully left alone as it was a touchy topic. They were good friends—not best friends, but close. He hoped they were close. Harry knew Michael had other friends, but he liked to think some days that Michael liked him best, and he wished he could not feel guilty for thinking that. Some days he liked to simply focus on today and forget all the madness that had already engulfed his life, amusing himself thinking about petty things like how he’s Michael's favourite friend. Some days Harry liked to delude himself that he could be normal.

  
  


Harry worked for his crappy apartment: a place with a fold out bed, view of a brick wall, kitchen/dining with paint peelings sometimes dropping into food, a half-broken toilet, and shower that sometimes went cold for no apparent reason. It was enough to live upon and, even if it wasn't as fancy as Potter Manor, Harry loved it because it was home and because he had earned the place with his own efforts, completely independent from others. Harry decorated the place with scrawled hand-made drawings of people he used to know, which were frankly _terrible_ because he was no artist. But no one but Michael ever visited and he never commented anyway, so they didn't have to be brilliant. Harry had a life philosophy of staying out of the way of trouble, doing things because he liked to do them not because people expected him to, and (he did try this, but didn't succeed as often as he'd like) to never judge a book by his cover (he'd had enough of that in his childhood).

  
  


Harry was happy with the way his life was, happy to be of no real importance, where his biggest stresses were trying to figure out how bank accounts worked and how he blushed when a girl winked at him in his waitress uniform. Damn, it always annoyed him how 98% of them were lesbians with a maid kink.

 


	2. Sexy Times - Part 1

 

_Sexy Times – Part 1_

 

Harry Potter thought he might hate alcohol, hate it with a vengeance he hadn't hated anything since Voldemort. It was bitter, it burned like fire, it tasted worse than Dudley's failed cooking attempts... and he loved it in a tragic sort of way. He didn't know if it was a surprise or not; that something so toxic could be so addictive, that he could become dependant on something which he glared at with all his might. Perhaps it was the way it made him forget, like Dreamless Sleep never could. Surely it was better to be out cold with the nauseous taste of whiskey on his lips than stuck in a loop of nightmares of a past that no longer existed.

 

Harry felt that alcohol was grand equaliser, if such a thing existed. Most would say that “Death makes us all equal”, but, Harry wasn't sure if that was strictly true, having met Death and observed the entity's bias against him. He liked to believe that when everyone was drunk out of their minds, making all sorts of bad decisions, that they all held something in common, and were no longer separated by race, gender... universes.

 

Honestly, he thought that alcohol was home. In his original universe, the one with all those wizards and dead Voldemort supporters, he had sunk a little into drink after the war. Here it seemed to be the same, after an attack on the city people steadied themselves in bars and with the comforting taste of brandy on their tongues. All Harry wanted was a home, a simple home and a simple life, no longer handling the pressure of reliance by an entire expectant population. A place to rest his feet, a small hovel to curl up safe in, maybe even a friend to share his sorrows with.

 

That night it was warm outside, sticky in the kind of way that made people grumpy but wasn't humid enough to complain about without sounding like a whiner. Harry sat on a smooth bar stool, one he had sat on more than once, and knew he shouldn't drink too much that night. Nothing seemed to end well when he drank copious amounts. He closed his eyes for a moment, the smell of alcohol and disoriented sound of drunken laughter or slightly sober tears joining the air with a certain tinge of humanity.

 

Some days Harry would close his eyes and imagine he was at Three Broom Sticks, drinking Butter Beers with Fred and George, whilst Hermione dragged Ron into the library to study or perhaps make out. He sometimes closed his eyes and could remember how they made him blush with their cheeky jokes about boys and things Harry hadn't understood but had known were _dirty_. George hadn't been the same after the war, and after Fred had died, none of them had, and it didn't help that Harry had always thought Fred was funnier. It had been one of the only ways he could tell them apart; their different sense of humour. George was a lot sharper, less witty, more mean, and those parts of his personality only seemed to accentuate when Fred passed. He was less of the cheerful joker he had been as a child, and more of a grieving bitter old man.

 

It was December, past Christmas, and only a few days until New Years. The streets were filled with Christmas cheer, people of all ages getting drunk and vomiting outside Harry's apartment complex, the news complaining about the destruction of the city, blaming some weird vigilante group (Harry couldn't be bothered to read the article), and expensive eye hurting Christmas lights dotted about making people wonder about other religious holidays with a vagueness that belied an overindulgence in the mystical wiles of chocolate. For Christmas Harry had gotten a green jumper from Michael, and Jamie had bought him a slim and fancy dress (fancy meaning slutty) – it was one sequin away from glowing in the dark (which he set on fire in a fit of non-passiveness). Harry had bought Michael a bowling alley key chain (made of real silver) since his friend constantly lost things, and there'd been no one else to provide for – bar Jordan who would not accept his gift either way. Harry could remember Christmases where he got a myriad of presents, a sweater from Mrs. Weasley, chocolate frogs from Ron, books from Hermione, and Christmases where he got none, or a twisted coat hanger or bottle of detergent, courtesy of the Dursley's _loving_ care. His life was like that, he supposed, up and down like a roller coaster, as reflected by his gifts.

 

“Another?”

 

Harry opened one eye, realising he had closed them in memories, and nodded,

 

“Make it a double.”

 

Harry felt like James Bond for a moment. He'd always wanted to say that. Most likely ever since Draco Malfoy had accidentally quipped a James Bond phrase at their first meeting. Perhaps their rivalry still stretched across to this dimension even now.

 

The barman nodded solemnly, perhaps understanding it wasn't a happy occasion, and brushed his dirty blonde hair aside before clanking the cups around in some sort of order. A bright amber Mimosa with a slice of orange cut into the glass was slid across to him, the glass bottom skating smoothly over the polished counter with only a faint 'whirr' sound. Perhaps it was silly that Harry always got drunk on Mimosa's, but he had long ago stopped living to fit other's expectations. It was a sweet warm powdery smell that reminded Harry of past nights like this, with contrary fruity drinks to help him forget a past he was depressingly obsessed with. He sipped the drink, smiling sadly at the sweet and sour taste that burned his throat in faux sympathy.

 

The barman was new – Harry hadn't seen him before – so he would not gather that Harry was a regular. He charged Harry full price, and he paid like any other sod who just wanted more Mimosas to drown away their sorrows. After emptying his wallet, grateful in the back of his mind that he had not packed too much money with him (because of the knowledge he would spend it all on Mimosas) Harry snuck a look down the table. Some people were glancing at his 'feminine' drink with distaste, whilst gurgling their whiskey and cheap gin with relish. The majority at the bar were brooding men, somehow fitting the stereotype of this type of place. It was ironically named _the_ _Brooding Manhunt_ – the origins of which unknown to Harry. The place was filled with the normal crowd; old men mourning their wives, young lads out celebrating but not knowing the bar was for the depressed (they should truly put a sign up), and middle aged women looking for a shag.

 

Harry saw a lesbian wink at him. And, he knew it was a lesbian (or at least someone with a preference for women) because she was snogging her girlfriend while she winked blatantly. Harry closed his eyes with apparent pain. He was wearing dark blue jeans, a white collar shirt undone slightly, and a red jacket. Sure, he was curvy and his lips were... plump and womanly, but he wasn't a _girl_! He sighed, giving a small smile to the still snogging lady and shook his head slightly. She shrugged and refocussed on the woman eating her face off.

 

Harry let his gaze drift again, nearly finished with his compulsive three sixty turn. Mike insisted he had PTSD or some other mental disorder every other day, eyes flashed with worry or humour when he observed Harry's shifting gaze. After running his eyes over a sad looking grey bearded fellow he came across someone... out of the ordinary. At least, an oddity for _the_ _Brooding_ _Manhunt._

 

Mr. Oddity was a man. He was gruff man, with stark blonde hair, falling in _manly_ waves just past his ears (unlike Harry's shit show of a home-made hair-cut). His face was unforgiving and sharp, handsome in a way Harry had only ever seen in the movies and the occasional hunky ma- girl, pretty girl, not man, strutting down the street (and no, Harry was _certainly_ not checking out the hunky blonde man! He was as straight as an arrow!). He had faint blonde stubble on his chin, well, not faint but thick and reaching all the way up his in front of his ears like he hadn't shaved in a month. He was muscled, his arms, and legs, and chest, and _neck?_ covered in strength fit for a wrestler or strong man at the gym. He had muscles on his muscles, mini muscles. _Merlin_.

 

He was... good looking.

 

But, that wasn't the thing that caught Harry's attention. Well, wasn't the main thing (His looks didn't catch Harry's attention at all, he wasn't interested in the slightest!). How many Mimosa's had he had? Harry felt far too drunk than he should, perhaps he had been poisoned. But, no, that wasn't the main reason this muscular sumo wrestler apprentice had caught his eye. Harry could only stare at the literal _armour_ his juicy blonde man had acquired. There was a thick lathering of chain-mail on his arms, so shiny, silver, almost like gem stones sparkling across at him, begging Harry to touch. His chest was adorned with leather and steel plates. He was wearing a... red cape, a literal red cape that hung limply from his shoulders, perhaps there for the purpose intimidation, but Harry knew no one who would be intimidated by a cape. _Tight_ black pants constricted his legs, with leather breeches on his shins and metal boots strapped to his feet. On the table, where hunky Mr. cape man was leaning his drink and elbows, was an actual _hammer_. A huge metal hammer, that Harry with his too-thin girly arms would never be able to lift without the aid of magic.

 

“Hey, bar guy?”

 

The barman turned slightly amused eyes to Harry, seemingly intrigued with Harry's drunken thoughts. The blonde said placatingly,

 

“I'm sorry ma'am, I'm no longer allowed to serve you. It is against protocol to serve someone this... inebriated.”

 

Harry blinked, the incorrect gender label going over his head. He shook his head empathetically, knowing he had no more money anyway. But, decided to do something stupid. Like he usually did when he was drunk. Thank heavens Mike wasn't here or he would never hear the end of it. He said,

 

“Hey, you see Mr. cape-man over there?”

 

His speech was slurred, and Harry would normally have been embarrassed, but Mimosas were his liquid courage, and he had lost many of his previous inhibitions thanks to the devilish fruity delights. Harry could only feel proud and bold at the question – interested and curious of what could occur – _tingly_ in the most delicious way. The blonde barman raised an eyebrow at the other patron adorned with the metal armour, before glancing back to Harry who was leaned heavily over the bar, as if trying to clamber over it, his face suddenly inches away from the barman's nose.

 

“Yes.”

 

Harry smiled an impish smile, curling a curl of spiky Potter hair around in something that was meant to be vaguely reminiscent of flirting. Mr. Barman was not impressed by the display, but seemed more bemused than annoyed so let it continue. Harry said thoughtfully,

 

“I've got no more money left, at least, no more money here. Do you think you could do a guy a favour and buy cape-man a Mimosa from me?”

 

The barman paused, not entirely sure what to do. He was quite new on the job, this was his second day working, and they had not instructed him in policy for this situation. Common sense commented stridently in his mind that he should not do this, but the larger more amused part of him wanted to see the girl get the guy... the very muscled armour wearing warrior guy sitting on table three with a two gallon jug of beer. He shrugged, thinking he could simply put aside a wedge of pay, he wasn't doing this for the money anyway, he simply wanted experience working in bars.

 

...Hopefully this wouldn't cost him his job.

 

Harry smiled like a satisfied imp when the barman fixed muscle man a Mimosa and toddled over to give it to him. He was feeling very flirty tonight, and seemed to have forgotten that he was not gay, not a girl, and certainly not ready to initiate contact with a huge blonde warrior man. However, Harry did not remember this, and instead simply waved, charmingly (in his mind it was quite an alluring wave), at the blonde guy when his eyes flickered over at him in a question. Once he saw Harry wave and answer the questioning 'why'd you give me a Mimosa' glance (as Harry dubbed it), he stood and walked confidently over to Harry, his gait similar to that of Charlie Weasley... and just as hunky.

 

(Not that Harry had any unrequited feelings for any Weasley other than his wife, that would be absurd.)

 

Blonde muscle guy stood next to Harry's stool, and the both of them stared at one another for a few moments. The barman leaned back a bit – preparing to watch the show – wondering how this would play out, and if his Mimosa sacrifice would pay off after all. Harry giggled at the confused expression on Muscle's face, and said,

 

“Don't you like Mimosas?”

 

Muscle, as Harry decided to temporarily name him, tilted his head to the side and roved his eyes over Harry curiously. Muscle uttered softly, a slight drunk tilt to his lips that reminded Harry that this man had been consuming boos as well,

 

“The orange fruity drink?”

 

Harry laughed again, as if Muscle had said something _so funny_ , and something in the back of his mind was screaming at him for being a drunk idiot. Harry decided he didn't care if he was being an idiot or not, because his laugh seemed to make Muscle's lips twitch in a smile, and Harry loved Muscle's smile. It practically _shone_. He nodded stupidly, finally realising it had been a question – not a statement – and stood on wobbly legs. Muscle looked at him worriedly,

 

“Would the lady want to be seated at mine seat?”

 

His accent was British, with an undertone of something unrecognisable which Harry vaguely connected as Mermish (probably incorrectly). It was deep and seductive, although it didn't seem to be Muscle's intention (he wasn't flirting), Harry thought when he looked in those blue honest eyes. His voice was not as gruff as his stubble, but not as elegant as his shockingly dainty fingers. Honestly, Harry didn't think he was _into fingers_ but this guy's fingers were... of holy calibre.

 

Harry blinked a few times, remembering Muscle had invited him somewhere, before nodding, smiling jovially as Muscle tucked an arm around his waist and led him over to table three. He shot the barman an grateful glance, happy when he got a recognisable nod in return, and plopped himself ungracefully down in the seat _far too close_ to Muscle. Muscle edged away slightly, but Harry saw his eyes linger on his lips as Harry spoke,

 

“So, what's with the armour?”

 

Muscle blinked, as if shocked by the question,

 

“...'tis my battle sheath, and I can only habit safety with the apparel.”

 

Harry nodded in understanding. It was like how after the war he had carried his wand around with him everywhere, always paranoid that someone would attack. He supposed it was a similar comfort to him as Muscle's armour was to Muscle. He patted a consoling hand on the other man's shoulders, a giggle slipping past his drunken lips at the stiffening. His fingers lingered and Muscle looked down at his chest where the hand had drifted.

 

Muscle said apologetically,

 

“I... My heart belongs with another.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow,

 

“As does mine.”

 

Muscle looked confused, but did not remove Harry's hand from his shoulder, where he had raised it to after Muscle had rebuffed his drunken attempt at flirting. Harry thought it strange that Muscle let the hand remain, and felt a pang of guilt in his chest at the thought he was flirting with someone who was already with someone. Ever since Ginny Harry hadn't felt right to be with anyone else, he'd only had a late-night one-night-stand drunk-out-of-his-mind with one of the other waitresses from the café. This man... _man_ , was with someone. It wasn't right for Harry to...

 

Muscle spoke,

 

“Her heart does not belong to me.”

 

Harry looked at him mournfully, and replied with his own tale of woe, as if this were a movie and not an extremely unexpected (and slightly unpleasant) conversation,

 

“I... don't even know if she thinks of me. She probably thinks me dead. And we'll be gone from each other forever.”

 

Once Harry finished speaking, feeling a little disjointed, Muscle leant forward slightly and held Harry's hand which had drifted down once more to rest on the apex of his muscled armoured abdomen. Harry had never met anyone with a six pack, except maybe Oliver Wood, who he'd only known had it from... observing him in the shower. Strictly in _scientific_ curiosity of course. Muscle's body was warm, like a heater, and Harry found himself leaning in further, drawn to it. Muscle said sadly,

 

“I loved her, and I should not have. It was wrong to give my heart to a...”

 

“Girl?”

 

Harry peeped in, thinking that literally giving your heart to someone could be dangerous, let alone to a girl. Muscle laughed without humour, making Harry feel self conscious before it was drained out of him by the alcohol still brimming in his system.

 

“Ah, not a girl. Not a boy either. A heart is not to give to another, 'twill only lead to heartbreak.”

 

Harry didn't really understand, but he kept listening, because in that moment Muscle sounded like the smartest person in the world with all his romantic preaching. Muscle grasped Harry's hand tighter, and Harry felt a warmth stirring in his belly, one he did not push away like all the others. Muscle continued,

 

“I only put others in the line of arrows, push them into danger whether I love them truly or not. You should leave me too, lady of great beauty, although you look so... wise... No, you could not possibly understand.”

 

Did Muscle think he was a girl? Really? Still? Harry sighed, feeling his eyelids droop wearily, and his body feel so heavy. He remembered something from his almost-failed reading, that alcohol was a depressant, and slowed the reactions of a person. All his brain could process right now was the handsome heater in front of him and the confusing words of how he thought Harry was in danger. 'Pish posh' Harry thought to himself, he could do his wandless magic, he was in no danger.

 

Mimosas also made him slightly arrogant.

 


	3. Sexy Times - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: actual sexy times! *gasps*

_Sexy times – 2_

 

Harry lifted his other hand off the table, and delicately ran a finger through Muscle's soft golden locks. God, he was beautiful. Harry just wanted to eat him all up, look at those delicious lips of his, they were far too mesmerising not to be kissed. Harry murmured nonsensically as he traced his hand over Muscle's face, and Muscle let him, seeming to be entranced by Harry's bright eyes that were opened wide to study Muscle's face, to take in every detail,

 

“Nonsense you gorgeous pirate. Thief. You've not given your heart just as you haven't stolen others. God, you're pretty. And, don't be worried for danger, I've lived a dangerous life 'till now and I'll not mind to continue it with whatever nonsense you've stuck yourself in.”

 

Muscle looked confused. Harry felt confused.

 

Ah well.

 

He lunged forward, like a wolf attacking its prey, and pressed his way too soft and feminine lips against Muscle's with a startling intensity that would have shocked him had be not been as drunk as a skunk. Muscle was still for a moment, perhaps in shock, perhaps still confused, but soon replied to the wordless question by pressing his gorgeous lips back to Harry like a man possessed. Harry clutched a hand in Muscle's hair, cupped the back of those golden locks, pulling the armour wearing edible man closer to him, and held onto his shoulder with the other hand as if he were holding onto a roller coaster. It was rough, and crisp, and stirred fire in Harry's stomach. His eyes were opened wide as he stared into the lust glazed pupils of Muscle. It was passionate, and all too much and all too little.

 

Harry pulled himself onto the non-flexible lap of Muscle, leaping up from his seat, pushing against his metal armour as if it would give way if he pushed enough. Harry rubbed his feet on the back of Muscle's calves as they embraced passionately, legs needing to move with all the excess fire within him. Muscle gripped his hips, in a strong way that said 'I'm not letting you go', and it probably should have been scary but Harry couldn't think through in the fog of desire (aided and abetted by the concentrated consumption of life altering mimosas) he was letting himself fall into, he couldn't help but think 'hold me harder'. Muscle kneaded his hips like bread, making Harry gasp into the kiss as goosebumps popped up on his skin, and he thought they were going to go further, thought the kiss would move up a level. Maybe some skin on skin, sweat pouring down his back, and Muscle gripping his hips but differently and gasping-

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Harry stopped the kiss, face flushed, chest rising and falling loudly in huffing pants, and he stared at the blonde barman. He tilted his head in a question, and he felt Muscle squeeze his hips again, as if to check they were real.

 

“I'm sorry, but excessive PDA is not permitted in the establishment, if you would please leave?”

 

Harry had forgotten they were in a crowded place, but didn't find himself blushing in embarrassment as one may have suspected. No, the normally timid and introverted Harry Potter was grinning like a man possessed. No, he was proud, of himself, of his ugly effeminate girly body, of Muscle between his legs... oh the things they could do... Harry gulped in arousal. Muscle, however, seemed slightly more concerned, and apologised quickly, before standing them both up and gripping Harry's wrist gently. The lesbian that had winked to him earlier cat called as they left the bar, and Harry couldn't help but think that sexism was about to tip the scales in the opposite direction. Honestly, he was already wearing a demeaning waitress outfit at his work and now he was being catcalled, what next?

 

Muscle walked them outside, into the cold after-Christmas air, and didn't seem to know what to say. His blue eyes searched the surrounding street for a few infinitesimal moments before landing back on Harry's face, his eyes a constant question. Harry smiled goofily at him, in his drunk sort of way, and latched onto his arm like a leech. He said imploringly,

 

“So... your place?”

 

He didn't exactly want hunky mc. hunk god to see his place barren enough to have tumble weed and crickets floating past. He was drunk, but somehow still self conscious of a thing he wouldn't be self conscious of in the day time. God, he wouldn't have even _kissed_ a _dude_ in the day time, let alone what he wanted to do now. Let's not think about sober Harry, he cautioned to himself as the hand on his waist seemed all too real. It felt warm and a little buzz trilled down his spine. Muscle was at a loss of words, so he simply nodded, then began the long trek down the street, leading Harry along with him.

 

Harry accepted that they were apparently _walking_ to their destination _in the dead of night_ , and didn't consider it a bad idea. No, the Mimosa drug in his veins was _quite_ encouraging.

 

 _Ping_. His phone suddenly went off and Muscle jumped a mile. Harry raised an amused eyebrow at him, or some sort of expression with his non-cooperative lady face (perhaps it appeared that he was constipated), and dug his old Nokia out from the depths of his pocket. Everyone had apple phones, even Michael, and Harry just couldn't stick with the trend. He was a weekly (if not daily) drunk, it was good to have a phone which never seemed to break no matter how many times he dropped it.

 

He fondled the power button, impatiently watched the screen light up, and entered his ridiculous and unnecessary pass code. _Snuffles_. No one ever snuck a glance at his phone or attempted to break-and-enter it, but Harry still thought it necessary to encode it with some sort of protection. His last name, Evans, was in memory of his mother and his password for almost everything was in memory of his dog-father. One of Harry's greatest fears was forgetting his past life and the people he cared about, so he made sure to scatter little reminders of his past all through his life. He would never forget them, he swore to himself. Harry scanned through the aps, still a smidge puzzled over the location of certain aps ( _what even was half of these aps_ ). Lady Luck was present with him that night and eventually he discovered the messages application. It took far longer than was reasonable but Harry consoled himself by reminding himself he was drunk... and pretty magical in origin, so phones had been a mystery until recently ( _what about the Dursleys_ said a sarcastic part of him, the part which he locked away and threw rotten tomatoes at on occasion. There was a _bro code_ ; don't talk about the Dursleys). Muscle glanced at him in question, and Harry waved a non-consequential hand in a non-answer that seemed to settle nothing.

 

_Checking you haven't been kidnapped._

 

It was Michael, and his expected and plausible check-in from the disco rink. Apparently there was a lot of late night roller skaters in America, who'd've thunk it. Harry quickly hacked away at a reply, a drunkenly written:

 

_Gonna shagg a muscley man. Don waiit up._

 

It sounded perfectly reasonable to Harry, and he was slightly proud to have remembered proper punctuation. What luck.

 

He then silenced and switched off his phone, secreting it back into his jeans, and trailed after Muscle to wherever they were going. Muscle coiled an arm around Harry's waist, probably a safer thing to do than allow Harry to trip and die (duh.), and led him to an _outrageously fancy_ building. It was obnoxiously good looking, a little like Muscle in that regard, and Harry knew on a deep level that his own shack would be inordinately envious. It was a grand building similar to the shape of a deformed emu, with what looked like millions of windows, and a large blue illuminated letter 'A' circled in white. Harry's mind itched slightly in half-hearted remembrance, but he soon brushed off the feeling to instead smile at the blonde warrior leading him to the elevator.

 

Harry slung an arm around Muscle's waist, leaning his head into the metal chest plate, and sniffed him. He smelt of fresh apples, old ale, and plastic. A strange combination. But Harry rationalised the plastic could have been from the annoying tower they were entering. The lift hummed quietly, and Muscle looked slightly uneasy inside of it. He turned to Harry,

 

“Are you certain of this, lady?”

 

Harry smiled happily and gave Muscle a tender and accidentally wet kiss on his worried cheek. He may be drunk but he wasn't stupid. He knew what he was getting into, how much he wanted the gorgeous man. It wasn't often that Harry saw men in armour at bars – wasn't _ever_ that he did – and he liked this guy, there was an attraction there, a connection. He was sweet looking and had tragic sort of eyes that were a bit similar to Ginny's after the diary in second year. Harry needed someone a little broken, because he was broken too, and it wouldn't be fair to inflict himself on a naïve innocent.

 

At that thought he could hear Michael's voice in his head, in a half-forgotten memory, talking about Harry's damaged self esteem and wondering what he could do to help. Harry chastised memory-Michael with a solemn mournful smile that revealed twice as many teeth than were required, _be quiet Mike, I'm fine_.

 

The elevator pinged and for a moment Harry thought it was his Nokia. It wasn't. When the doors opened he realised this, since it pretty obviously wasn't his phone affecting the elevator. They were on floor 58, as the robotic voice reassured Harry, which seemed to be far too large a number in Harry's discombobulated mind. Muscle gripped Harry's hand with his dainty fingers, ooh they looked so scrumptious, and led him through a voice activated slider door with the pass-code 'Point Break'. He appeared a tad agitated of having that pass-code but Harry simply patted him on the shoulder and followed him inside.

 

The door shut behind them. They were left alone, blaringly alone, and it was blissful. Harry took no notice of the room they were in, only recognising cream carpet, before he lost himself in the abyss of Muscle's jaded blue eyes. Could you look into someone's eyes for eternity? It certainly seemed possible in that moment of complete immersion. Muscle stared at him, gaze dropping from his eyes, to his lips, down down his chest until he was staring at his hands blatantly. Harry realised his hands had drifted down from Muscle's waist and attached to his hip, inches away from his dick.

 

Well. This was progressing fast.

 

Harry thought that they had waited long enough, thought it was time to take the initiative, and drunkenly lifted his jacked and then attempted his shirt, buttons taunting him annoyingly with their magic enforced strength. He eventually settled on unbuttoning, and did so slowly, with great focus, as his hands were shaking slightly in excitement and kept slipping. Soon – too soon? – they were all undone and he hoisted the white collared vest off of him, it slid against his skin smoothly, the feeling familiar.

 

Harry flicked his eyes up at Muscle, and realised – after approximately three seconds and unhindered and unnecessary eye-tennis – that Muscle was staring at his nipples. Um... What?

 

“You are not a girl.”

 

He said, as if it were the strangest thing in the world. Muscle sounded as if he had woken up to a green dwarf in his bed and had no clue as to how he had arrived at that place in time. Harry's dry and boring nipples was a cause of deep unrest in the universe, he was a mystery, a mistake, a strange unanswerable occurrence. Harry scowled harmlessly, annoyed that Muscle hadn't realised it until then. He replied, pointing out the obvious with inebriated relish,

 

“Neither are you.”

 

Gesturing vaguely to just... all of him. Muscle was just... muscle... and man. A shiny – ooh its so pretty – glistening abdominal monstrous muscle smirked smugly in reply to Harry's gesticulation. Muscle said haltingly, still staring at Harry's chest with wide eyes,

 

“But... you kissed me.”

 

Harry sighed, _why are we even having this conversation_ the Mimosa part of him – which was currently 60% of his thought process – complained in a shrill whine,

 

“Yeah.”

 

Then he walked forward and raised a hand to Muscle's cheek, staring into ice blue eyes as if they held the answers to questions he was too scared to ask. It was an odd move of Harry's, especially since he didn't tend to be one for dramatics. Muscle's face was rough with friction from his stubble, but was also soft and told the tale of a man who hadn't aged much and had lived a non-labourer's life. One would think from his armour he was a warrior, and Harry could see it in his stance too, but his feather soft skin told another tale. ( _Maybe he's a fish_ Harry mused before dismissing the thought, that doesn't make any sense, fish have scaled skin.) Muscle stiffened, stared at Harry in confusion, as if he were a puzzle he couldn't solve, right in the eyes. Harry felt a bit flattered, honestly, people normally just ogled his fine lady's legs. He revealed,

 

“I desire to kiss you.”

 

Harry replied breathlessly,

 

“I want you to.”

 

But he didn't. Muscle just stood there, confused out of his mind, as if he were reconsidering everything he ever knew. Harry smelt beer on his breath, and the tinge of Mimosa which was even more attractive to Harry than his biceps because it meant he'd drunk the fruity drink that Harry had conned the barman into giving him. He'd drunk it. He'd drunk _Harry's drink_.

 

Mimosa compromised level – _rising to 70%_. Mimosas now controlled 69.88% of his thought process, and were flattered at Muscle drinking Mimosas.

 

“You are a boy.”

 

Muscle stated the obvious, letting his eyes seep down to the edge of Harry's naked torso, to the edge of his jeans, studying the crinkles on the pockets for far longer than was necessary. Harry gazed right back at him, at his ripped chest and soft skin, he wondered if he would be hairy like a troll or smooth like Harry. He wondered which he desired it to be. He wondered if the armour would come undone under his fingers and Muscle would be left gasping.

 

Harry didn't deem himself fit to reply, so lost he was in staring at Muscle's sculpted body. Was it superficial of him to care so much for this man's looks? Harry didn't think so, since the only thing he truly knew about this man was that he was heartbroken and handsome beyond belief. ( _and that's not shallow at all_ ) He didn't think a lot of things then, though, for he was more concentrated on not tripping over his tongue which hung rudely out of his mouth in desire.

 

How rude of his tongue to hang like that.

 

Harry had never felt desire like this before. Perhaps the boos had gotten to his head, and now he was thinking crazy. Perhaps Death had finally driven him mad – since this appeared to be some twisted version of the afterlife. Or maybe his Mimosa possession was so successful that he was now 100% Mimosa, he would _be_ a Mimosa, maybe Muscle would... drink him. (a large shudder of arousal came over him in a wave at the thought of a slurping Muscle on his thighs) He'd heard of mean drunks and sad drunks, had he ever heard of a gay drunk?

 

He might be it.

 

“I have never gazed upon a man's body... and felt desire burn in me.”

 

Muscle disclosed with a tinge (only a tinge, how disappointing) of lust in his voice. Harry thought it was quite eloquently describing his situation as well. Maybe they were meant for each other then, if this was a first for both of them. Or maybe Harry had merely been denying who he was up until then. Harry said without demand, but concurrently said it as an order,

 

“Enough of this... Is that armour hard to take off?”

 

 

Muscle looked distracted, and stared at Harry for a few more moments before coming to a decision, murmuring something under his breath like 'I have never felt this before, and it would be foolish to deny it' (or at least Harry fantasised that he had said that). Then, Muscle—who had seemed fairly... not submissive, but not as _wanting_ as Harry—suddenly sprung to life. With rippling arms and a set expression, Harry watched in appreciation and lust as Muscle tore off his battle gear, throwing the metal covering to the ground by his feet with a sharp clang. He was left in the nude, with his cock standing up hard and ready, not wilted at all from the realisation of Harry's gender (because that's how cocks work apparently), curls of pubic hair nestled behind it, and a look of pure _hunger_ directed at Harry.

 

He almost fainted when Muscle swept him up, smoothly lodging Harry over his shoulder – like a fireman _feisty_ – marching over and tossing him down on the bed, as if he weighed nothing. Harry blinked in surprise when he felt Muscle over him, between his legs, pressing a persistent erection against his clothed thigh, and kissing (lathering him in _oh Merlin above this shouldn't be as sexy as it feels_ saliva) him deeply on the bridge between neck and shoulder. He gasped, arching up when delicate and lady like fingers tweaked his nipples and danced lower and lower until they were teasing the edge of his jeans. Harry's green eyes were open and glazed as pleasure (and Mimosas) coursed through him, and he stared at the ceiling as a tongue snuck out and dipped itself across his delicate girl throat. Harry almost whined in shock as Muscle pressed a desperate hand under his denim and underwear, rubbing over his dick, and making sparks shoot up his spine.

 

Ginny had taken Harry's virginity, on their wedding night (and isn't it such a turn on to think about his wife while he's initiating sex with a strange and smexy man), and it had been nothing like this. She had gasped, had praised him, had arched like he was arching now, but Harry had felt almost... mechanical doing it. Not that it wasn't lovely, and the folds of heat inside her were mesmerising to his achy cock, but there had always been something missing, and Harry now thought he knew what it was.

 

It was passion. It was touch beyond words that drew gasps and pleas from his throat in beautiful treachery (damn rebellious gasps and pleas, just accept the state of the world!). Muscle knew how to touch him just right, knew how to force sounds from his throat that reminded Harry of an animal in heat, sounds he would never make in the day time _(don't think about Sober Harry, don't think about Sober Harry)._ His hair was sweaty, face flushed in arousal and pleasure, and he could see a reflection of that on Muscle's body as he ground against Harry – who was rapidly becoming less clothed. Harry breathlessly, with shaky fingers, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the fly, it making an unzipping sound that did not fit this scene at all ( _breeeer_ reminiscent to a fart). He heard the other man groan as Harry did so, as if he were imaging what was soon to occur, and not groaning at the unsettling and off-putting _brrrrrp_ of the zip.

 

Harry's head felt filled with cotton, from the pleasant and distracting buzz of Mimosas which was still in him and the beating of his heart that sounded too loud. The blonde haired man hooked two fingers into the loops of his jeans, which were there for a belt but Harry never used because his hips were so curvy that they simply sat on them normally. Normally Harry cursed this, but now he was grateful, for there was no belt in the way, and Muscle could more easily access him like he so desired him to. He lifted his hips and gave the other man room to pull down his trousers (sex was quite a complicated matter – jeans only added to the difficulty, and Harry was glad to be the one just lying there as Muscle organised things... perhaps that's how evolution worked, if the details of sex were too complicated for you then your genes died out)

 

The room was awfully quiet once they were both naked and alone. With him staring at Harry's cock, although it wasn't quite as impressive as his own (and this _would_ be the perfect time for Harry to have a crisis of confidence, but Mimosas fiercely protected their king with their liquid courage side effect), and both of them wondering if they should continue. Muscle looked back up at Harry, seeming to pause from his dominant exploration of Harry's body, he looked so curious and questioning and somehow vulnerable. His hand was held just above Harry's waiting dick, achingly hard, and it stayed there, as if in a question to continue (Harry, in this moment, considered taking a sign language course, as he was interpreting Muscle's questioning glances and hand gestures almost as fluently as English).

 

Harry, with no concern for his own virtue at this point, replied with a jerky and enthusiastic nod, the mysterious ways of Mimosas lowering his inhibitions and increasing his boldness, as he thrusted upwards slightly. He tried to present himself to be attractive, but ended up almost falling off the bed when he elevated a leg into a dangerous position (was sex too complicated for him?).

 

Muscle charged forward again, tacking himself onto Harry's body, and rubbing himself against the warm flesh of his soon-to-be lover. They writhed against one another, in a way that was neither glamorous nor regretful, for an immeasurable amount of time, and a sneaky finger (damn rebellion is contagious) of Muscle's managed to find its way between Harry's open legs and to the cleft of his bottom. It drifted lower, the two still arching at one another almost violently ( _fight fight fight_ something chanted sardonically at the back of Harry brain) _,_ until it pressed against the dry entrance of Harry's arse.

 

“I've never been with a man before.”

 

Harry said it softly, and it should have been a vulnerable moment, but it wasn't, because they were both so damn impatient to get this going and drain themselves of the lust that almost felt painful ( _save your regrets until the morning_ the Mimosa hive mind encouraged). Muscle seemed to pause for a moment, as if contemplating what that meant, before he shook his head slightly to clear it (it was slightly concerning that it only took one head shake to empty his mind), and looked around for some lubricant. Harry could tell that even if his muscular blonde pal wasn't an expert on gay relations, he would at least understand the importance of easing the way.

 

An aroused shudder went through Harry's taxed body (Mimosas are a real energy-sapping cock block) as he imagined _something_ needing to be _eased_. Merlin. How was this his life?

 

Muscle returned with a bottle of lube, see-through, like water, and looking suspiciously like hair gel to Harry's addled mind. He knelt on the bed and Harry shuffled forward, feeling anxiety start to burn in his chest as the cap was unscrewed with a loud sound. It smelt like artificial fruit, far worse than the sweet smell of a Mimosa, and burnt his nose with something so blatantly sexual that Harry found himself a little more excited. Somehow the smell of lube was directly linked in his mind to the smell of sex.

 

... _I wonder why_ , Harry thought to himself with sarcasm.

 

It didn't hurt, not truly, when the man who had been so damn dominant and rough before went very slowly and carefully, rubbing the ring of muscle almost reverently. It also helped that Harry was very relaxed from being _quite_ drunk, and, in his mind, _quite_ ready. Muscle pushed in one dainty finger, then two at which point Harry thought he'd be okay, then three, at which Harry thought Muscle would stop adding fingers, then four, when Harry was quite certain that he'd be okay and Muscle was just going overboard. His cock wasn't _that_ big.

 

“You're gorgeous.”

 

Muscle said, his breath coming out heavy as he positioned Harry on hands and knees, facing away from him. Harry found the compliment... nice, but thought he would have liked a manlier compliment like 'you're handsome' or 'I like your dick, its big'. Gorgeous... well, it reminded Harry of _gorgeous_ girls in sequin dresses at fancy galas, all donned up in lip stick and mascara.

 

He felt Muscle's strong and heavy hands on his hips another time that night, and then felt the strange feeling of a blunt cock against his arse hole. Harry's eyes opened wide as Muscle slowly pushed inside of him, fire danced across his skin and heat flushed his naked back. Harry clenched his hands into the sheet beneath him, throat dry at the cock slowly moving inside his hole. His muscles resisted him at first, and it burned slightly, but Harry relaxed, his body falling limp barely held up by his arms, and Muscle pushed in properly, his balls resting under Harry's cheeks, and pelvic bone right up against his butt.

 

Muscle waited a moment, and Harry wasn't sure what he was waiting for, only that this whole situation was weird, and amazing, and erotic as hell. Then he pulled, out out out until his dick was only in by the tip, and _in again_ , far reaching, mapping Harry's insides like oceans, and Harry gasped involuntarily. Muscle's cock almost seemed smug at drawing yet another sound from Harry (like those god damned muscle's glinting from exertion), and certainly continued to seem that way as it throbbed back into him, brushing against a bump inside him that made Harry see stars and galaxies far away. _I wonder if this is what its like to be an astronomer_ something snickered.

 

Muscle thrusted hard and fast after that. Harry couldn't keep up and ended up collapsing onto the bed, moaning incoherently, as the movements lost their steadiness and became uneven and shallow. He could only lie there uselessly, hearing grunting wafting over his back, as Muscle hit somewhere deep inside him again and again and a wave of pleasure pulsed through him from the tips of his toes and fingertips inwards as if he were arching off a waterfall ( _maaaaaan overboard_ ).

 

Harry came, with a hoarse yell, and pressed back against Muscle, who was _still going_ , and clenched his walls around the man. He lay there, in a daze of pleasure, his eyes closed as Muscle finished, gasping helplessly inside of him (someone call the police, this man is helplessly inside of him!), the strange feeling of liquid pulsing inside of Harry, and pulled out after a few moments. Harry felt himself drift, in a sex drained, alcohol drummed, experience malting daze. He settled down on the bed, come dribbling out of his spent body, and Muscle tugging him to his chest like an over sized teddy bear to cuddle up to.

 

Harry nuzzled his face into Muscle's chest and drifted to sleep. A part of him was sobbing at him for being a drunk idiot, but Harry just moaned and shifted against the naked man's shoulder. Muscle breathed a contented sigh onto his face, and Harry snuggled up against him.

 

 


	4. The Aftermath - Part 1

 

_The Aftermath – 1_

 

Harry groaned as his muscle's protested harshly as he awoke, pulsing in displeasure from _some stupid thing_ he had surely done last night. Harry had been drunk, and when he's drunk he does stupid things. **Fact of life.** Once he had bought a flat screen TV, and brought it back to his house, with the money he needed for rent and bills. Luckily (his Potter Luck flaring up like an old army injury – the bad luck to get into a situation and the good luck to come out on top), he had the receipt and had not damaged the electronic device in his drunk stupor. After that he learned not to carry around large amounts of cash when he planned to go to the bar.

 

 _Character developing_ the faintest traces of Mimosa whispered in his ears, as if advertising themselves to him.

 

Harry arched off the bed, similar to a cat, and opened his eyes which winced at the light coming in harshly from a window. _Rude._ He tried to raise his arms in a yawn but found himself stuck somehow, and crinkled his brow in confusion. His head ached, throbbed really, and he knew he was hungover. Never mind, Harry would fix it in a minute. He opened his eyes more fully and turned his head to whatever evil contraption had trapped his arms.

 

...A man.

 

What.

 

A naked man.

 

No.

 

A blonde man.

 

_Really, blonde?_

 

Who was naked next to him.

 

Harry was sticky.

 

Fuck fuck fuck.

 

And they were lying together.

 

And the man was... muscled, very very toned and had muscles that looked like they were made with steroids or some funky magic voodoo. Harry pulled himself away, trying to free himself from the arms of... Muscle. Yes. He remembered.

 

Oh god.

 

OH GOD!  
  


He had... Harry had... Heavens help him! He had slept with someone, _a man_ , and had let him fuck him, and had liked it _oh so_ much. And, damn it, he was probably late for work too (because punctuality in the workplace is of far greater concern). And this man, this _man_ , Muscle, was holding him like some prized teddy bear he had won at the county fair. Harry breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing heart, and implemented his frail-as-fuck Occlumency barriers in an attempt to centre himself. Okay, this was fine, absolutely fine. This type of thing happened all the time to drunk people. All the time. One night stands were a thing and...

 

Oh fuck. He hadn't used a condom. And Harry was a fucking wizarding _bearer_. A life with a child flashed before his mind and Harry's breath started to come out in pants. _Childbirth – pain – blood – and was this child meant to come out of his ASS because HOLY MOTHER OF MERLIN HE DIDN'T WANT AN ASS BABY – first birthday – Harry drunk, depressed on the couch, baby, injured neglected, treated just like Harry, baby sick, alone, crying, Harry gurgling with alcohol – second birthday – Jordan comes in with a gun, he has a proposition for him and..._ Never mind, he'd just use the contraception spell now...

 

His heart calmed to a reasonably healthy rhythm. Harry felt his muscles loosen. No Ass Babies today.

 

He could do that with wandless magic, lord knows he'd never needed it for this before, but _he could do some makeshift contraception_. Harry disentangled himself from the evil arms of Muscle, and rested his hands on his stomach. _Nec Infans_ , he thought, which was literally just 'no baby' in Latin. Jesus, the magical world sure was blind when they thought their fancy spells actually had any meaning whatsoever and weren't just... focusing implements.

 

It was strange that Hermione had taught him this spell oh so long ago. Especially since it could only be used upon the caster, and she had taught Harry the spell _before_ he had learned he was a bearer. ...that girl, she knew too much for her own good.

 

Harry momentarily considered the ethics of abortion, and if this sperm-fuelled innocent ass baby inside him was worthy of life, what constituted as life, was Harry's life worth more, would he do this if the baby was more of a baby, would he go to hell for this, did the baby deserve to die just because he was too drunk to remember protection... and then he thought _fuck it, I'm already a murderer, the hell do I care!_

 

Harry felt the familiar drag of magic racing through his veins, like the choppy current of a ravine. His felt like ice, when it used to feel like fire, because he became the 'Master' of Death ( _yeah right_ , the _Master_ of Death is _definitely_ not a synonym for 'Death's plaything'), and so his magic was apparently all kinds of messed up now. Never mind. Harry closed his eyes, focused on the feeling of his stomach, and froze away the feeling of his body preparing itself for pregnancy. His eyes flashed open, fear tying knots in his stomach, and he took a few more breaths.

 

Its not a big deal. He's making this out to be more than it is. Harry rested his hand against his pounding temple, which was not helping things, and set off a pain reliever spell, and calming enchantment. A few eternal moments later the magic did its thing and Harry was left with a calm mind and a dulled hangover which was barely noticeable. Especially to the Boy Who Lived, who had been under the _Cruciatus_ too many times to count.

 

He settled his breaths, and decided he would just act... normally. Harry was going to be the subdued ordinary waitress he ordinarily was. With that vow he rolled out of the bed, smelling the disquieting scents of sex, semen, and the faint, but sadly comforting, aroma of Mimosas, and padded over to his clothes which were thrown about uncaringly on the floor. Subsequent to gathering them all into his arms, them smelling of alcohol but better than nothing, he carefully dressed himself and made sure his hair was not too messy from last nights events. Harry still felt _something_ in... _inside of him_ and took off the trousers he had donned to search for a bathroom to clean himself (because it was scientifically proven that removing trousers increased navigational skill), or at least one of his orifices.

 

Harry managed to find a room; a bathroom en suite off to the side of the overly large sleeping chamber he had left only seconds before. He felt intrigued and perhaps even jealous – it had been a long time since Harry had felt something like jealousy – as he ogled the single bathroom which was larger than his whole bedroom back at his flat. It truly wasn't a bedroom, just a fold out bedroom and a spare few metres of space. Harry waddled over to the appropriate spot, annoyed at having a slight limp, and wiped the remaining come from his backside with the _warm_ gentle red tea towel resting by the bath. He didn't really want to ask himself why it was warm. Once he was clean – or clean _enough_ , and no longer shivered from the reminder of... someone inside of him, Harry pulled his jeans back on, and made his way back outside.

 

Muscle was snoring loudly on the bed, sheets rumpled and covered in... dried fluids, as he passed. Harry didn't deign to look at him, thinking he hadn't known what he was thinking in his drunk state of mind. Sex. Sex with a hunky blonde man. Sex with someone with too many muscles to count. Okay, when he said it like that it didn't sound too bad, but Harry was not one to simply throw around sex willy nilly. Harry was a... noble man, with honour, he liked to think, not frigid but not slutty, and it wasn't like him at all to do this. Especially with a stranger. Thank god his wizarding blood protected him from most muggle illnesses, including STDs.

 

_Not to mention Muscle was a man, and, Harry was in no way, shape, or form gay._

 

He felt his phone vibrate intrusively from one of the deep pockets of his snuggly jacket, and dug it out to check. Anything would work as a distraction round about now.

 

_Harry? What happened last night?_

 

It was Michael, and Harry read the five other messages from him, starting with:

 

_What?_

 

And continuing on to:

 

_You're fucking someone!_

 

Followed by:

 

_Be safe._

 

With the subsequent and expected:

 

_Call me._

 

And:

 

_Are you okay?_

 

Harry sighed, typing in reply,

 

_I was drunk._

 

It made him feel a bit guilty, shameful too. Harry had... he had acted so rashly. What if the conception spell didn't work? What if his wizarding blood _didn't_ protect him from some of the STDs in this universe? There were so many consequences, the smallest being his dignity. It was... painful, truly painful, to have been so out of control and irresponsible. There were so many worse things he could have done with no filter, and it just...

 

He wished this was enough to convince him to stop drinking, but he knew it wouldn't be.

 

Harry sighed, quite put upon by this whole situation, likened his emotions to that of a ruffled Hedwig, and scanned the new message that had appeared on his phone like magic.

 

_Want to talk about it? I know you haven't... been with anyone since Marissa. He didn't... hurt you, did he?_

 

Harry felt something ache in his chest at the concern Mike was showing. It hadn't been... rape or anything, nothing like Michael had been through with his ex, but Harry also hadn't really been in the right state of mind. Harry was quite uncomfortable and ashamed with himself, having been so out of control and... sleeping with a _man_ of all people, it was a lot to try to comprehend and come to terms with. He didn't want to worry his only friend, especially since nothing _bad_ had occurred. He also didn't want to lie to him, since they'd both been lied to too much in their lives. It just wasn't what they did, they weren't the type of people to dance around the truth from one another.

 

_I'm okay. It was consensual and everything, it didn't hurt. I'm just a bit embarrassed. You don't need to worry about me._

 

Harry sighed when he received no reply for two minutes. Maybe Michael needed to think or something. It _was_ just like his friend to end a conversation mid-way through, they both had some quirks. Like Harry's girlish body, which he cursed on a daily basis. He scowled as he looked down at his perfectly shaped hips, so easy to grab onto. He – rightfully – blamed them for attracting the attention of Muscle, like a peacock's plumage.

 

He swallowed two bottomless breaths, attempting – semi-successfully – to calm down from whatever shit show he had caused. With his luck he probably would have slept with some kind of megalomaniac super-villain and he's about to be entrapped in some very out-of-the-ordinary battles for the welfare of this new world. Harry desperately wanted to just get back home and mope to himself, maybe feel a bit sorry for himself, and definitely not have any Mimosas on a weekday. Damn his drinking.

 

 _Damn himself_.

 


	5. The Aftermath - Part 2

 

_The Aftermath – 2_

 

Harry didn't let his shoulders slouch; he was in an unknown place with possible enemies and couldn't let his guard down. No, instead he crept, feet sliding silently on downy cream carpet, and explored the new place he was situated in. It would only be for this morning, he assured himself, and then he would go home.

 

Harry snuck out of the bedroom, with skill only gained from the training of war, discovering a bland door he hadn't spotted before, and winced as his bare feet hit white linoleum, making far too much sound for such an insignificant action. Where were his shoes? The cold burned as he swept with unlearned grace (if one would call cautious anxious stumbling _graceful_ ) across the room, wondering what consequence could befall him. Since, honestly, Harry could never truly do anything without consequence, not with his Potter Luck.

 

The place was big, he realised, as he stared out large windows overshooting the city. It was early morning, the sun having just risen, and Harry eyes glazed at the sight of early morning risers starting their day, and late sleepers only just tucking themselves in to sleep or heading home with a shameful gait. It was not a pretty city; with the smoke and pollution and busy streets which Harry did not prefer, but anything looked nice from up high. Except perhaps war, since that looked ugly everywhere, from all angles, no matter what side.

 

“Who are you, little lady?”

 

Harry almost jumped out of his skin at the sound, but held himself steady. Deafening pumps of his heart thundered in his ears. Ever since the war he had been on edge. He liked to think that one day his body and magic would step down from the constant state of paranoia and readiness, that he would be able to coexist with his demons in peace. But, perhaps that was a lie as well. It hadn't all started in the war, had it? It had been long before that, a curse of hypersensitivity for a little boy locked away in a cupboard who just wanted to please his family. Harry had always been broken like this, a little twisted dull-eyes marionette, constantly on edge, but the most tragic thing of it all was that all his paranoia had been needed, and had been copied by others who needed to adapt quicker than they were capable. Those young first years had lost their bright eyes and nervous constitutions, and had instead traded for a lifetime of danger – no matter how safe they truly were.

 

The leer in the voice made Harry cautious, but not overtly uneasy. He was the local punching bag for lesbianism flirtation after all. He was hardly defenceless, it would take a lot to take him down, the boy who had defeated Voldemort and survived the Veil, but Harry didn't want to risk anything and didn't want to start anything he couldn't stop. He was probably overreacting anyway, it had only been one question, hardly an interrogation and hardly a threat. There was no reason to jump to conclusions such as enemies. _Then why so uneasy_ a cruel sultry whisper snarked into his ear.

 

Harry rotated slowly, keeping his hands up and ready for a fight, and couldn't help but try and place the voice – old nights from squinting his ears in a musty cupboard returned to him, hearing his only salvation. His accent was American, but not the same New York accent as Jamie, and certainly not with the same Indian undertone as Michael. It seemed American, but from a different part of America, like how a Manchester's accent in England is different to a Londoner's accent.

 

It was a man, as Harry had already suspected. A Caucasian, who on first glance looked skinny but through the lens of a veteran's in depth analysis was stronger than he first appeared, there was a danger in his stance. One that Harry had also, as a boy who was often overlooked because of his bodily assets. He was brown haired, with an unimpressed arrogance that hung around him almost like an aura. His eyes held pain, which Harry could relate to, but also boredom, narcissism and curiosity, which he couldn't as much. The clothes he wore were expensive, even if they were pyjamas, surely more expensive than Harry's, and he seemed to analyse Harry just as Harry analysed him. Maybe there was danger here after all.

 

Harry lowered his hands, only slightly, and mentioned with barely hidden intrigue,

 

“Harry.”

 

The man raised an eyebrow,

 

“I do not believe we've had the pleasure, _Harry._ And of course you know who I am.”

 

Harry sighed, suddenly quite exhausted of this whole thing, and retorted shortly,

 

“Ah, that would be incorrect, Mr...?”  
  


The man seemed taken aback, rearing back slightly as if dodging a blow, as if _everyone_ knew who he was. Harry fought rolling his eyes, he'd only arrived here two years ago, he was hardly likely to know all the celebrities – he preferred to research educational matters. And then there was the small _almost paltry_ fact that Harry preferred to avoid that area of the world. Ever since his experience _as_ a celebrity Harry had never held 'well known facts' about them at anything more than face value, he knew that half the trash assumed of him in the Wizarding World had been fake, the majority thanks to Rita Skeeter.

 

“Stark. Tony Stark.”

 

Tony seemed to be waiting for realisation to hit Harry's eyes. Well, he was wrong. Harry had never heard of Tony Stark, hadn't cared for him before he heard the name and didn't truly care to now. He was plenty content to simply continue on with his life, and Muscle's room-mates in the penthouse suite were sure to only complicate matters. He wanted to leave, it was his right to leave, and like any other one-night-stander he would do so.

 

“Well, I'll be off then.”

 

Harry turned to leave, still not entirely sure where the exit was (it shouldn't be _too_ difficult to find an exit in this place), but was annoyingly interrupted when Tony shouted an abrupt,

 

“Wait!”

 

and halted his absence. Harry twirled around dramatically slowly, hoping perhaps if he took so long to turn then Tony would get bored (not his finest plan). Once turned to face him, he paused with an unimpressed eyebrow raised, he was not in the mood for dealing with this.

 

“Yes?”

 

Harry drawled in an impersonation of Malfoy. Perhaps channelling his inner 'fuck off would you' persona would allow him the exit he was so enamoured with. (really he was grasping at straws now)

 

Tony replied with newly gained confidence, seeming to have regained his footing. Harry noticed the tone was filled with a slight anger at being dismissed so easily – the slight lilt at the end of the phrase. Perhaps he usually had more ease with keeping people's attention. Well, Harry wasn't usual, so he can stop thinking like that.

 

“What are you doing here? In Stark Tower? How did you even get in?”

 

Harry sighed again, still tired from an energetic night, and just wanting to get home so he could sleep off the rest of his repressed hangover. He knew that the pain relief would not last for eternity, and sooner or later he was going to have a headache that couldn't be smothered. If he arrived home pronto, collapsed on his lumpy mattress and slept, perhaps he would be able to rest through the worst of the agony and eventually go into work late – with only a slight headache for his troubles. Unlike people living in some 'Stark Tower' Harry had to work for a living, and Jamie, no matter how fond she was of taunting him (truly she needed a new hobby), wouldn't be too pleased if he gave no plausible reason to his tardiness. She was already wary of him for his history of late night drinking, times like this weren't uncommon for him.

 

Normally Harry would have skirted around the truth, been embarrassed, maybe even blushed in front of this somehow important man. But, he was tired and ready to leave, so he simply replied, fed up and hung over,

 

“I used the _elevator_. And the _why_ is that I slept with Muscle, and _now_ I'm going.”

 

Harry winced at the new light that entered Tony's eyes, and the almost smug smile on his lips.

 

“JARVIS, lock down the tower, we have a visitor.”

 

Oh shit.

 

\----0o0----

 

Harry, _stupidly_ he now realised, had fallen into a pattern of believing his life could eventually become normal. He had theorised that it needed to balance out inevitably, that the scales had tipped so far in one direction that all the odds stood with a new expressive normality.

 

It had begun when he was young, perhaps even after the first fall of Voldemort and death of his parents, where he had tried to make a home with the Dursleys. Even as a babe he had strove for the ordinary. After his 'normal' childhood failed to be normal, and instead gifted him with cupboards and bitter hunger, Harry convinced himself that Hogwarts would hold the key for his belonging, and he could hope to experience a typical adolescence by wizarding standards. That died again, with Voldemort's insistence that he get revenge and forfill that godforsaken prophecy, and Harry spent 99% of his time in Hogwarts being persecuted, nearly murdered, tortured in some instances and not getting very good grades (he surely would have failed without Hermione – bless her). After the 'blood war' as history had aptly and predictably named it, otherwise known as the second fall of Voldemort, Harry had experienced a vaguely calm and regular life with his newly wedded wife and manor on the hill – a day-to-day customary for Old Blood. He'd hoped to continue that way of life, have three beautiful children, and perhaps get a job in the Ministry. Fate laughed at him, cackled quite maniacally at his hope, and shipped him to an entirely alternate, hopelessly different, universe to become homeless for a while and lose everyone he loved in the process. Harry adjusted, as he was wont to do, and gained a job and flat, his equilibrium settling and life coming down from its madness.

 

Currently, as organised by elements Harry held no sway over, he was apparently trapped in Stark Tower subsequent to spending _the_ _night_ with Muscle, a British Accented armoured hunk. Harry was remiss to even feel surprised that everything had gone to shit, _again_ , since it appeared apparent that whenever he settled into a reasonably okay fixed existence the world deigned to mess it all up and do whatever the fuck it wanted. At present, Harry was perched, arms crossed, arse slightly sore, on the comfiest seat he had ever had the pleasure of knowing, head-on with the maybe-famous Tony Stark who was apparently 'annoyed that he had broken into his tower'. He sighed, deciding to surrender to the madness that had swept him away this time.

 

Stark Dude stood (perhaps he was too good for goddess worthy chairs) and sauntered around what appeared to be an island counter. Harry hadn't thought it was a kitchen since it was unnaturally spic and span with no actual _food_ anywhere to be seen – the absence of such radiating suspicious vibes. Tony generated hordes of beeping noises, in other words produced coffee, and settled down directly adjacent to Harry, a grey marble kitchen bench the only thing separating them and Tony's creepily aware staring. He was observing Harry as if he were special, perhaps interesting, and Harry fought a scowl off his face; there was no reason to scowl at someone who _may_ just be an okay person (he had not gathered enough about Tony Stark to say for such whether or not he was a good or bad person, excusing the possibility that good and bad are only constructs and there is no actual way to determine either way, which would not be subjective and therefore invalid). Even if Harry wanted to.

 

“So.”

 

Tony slit the silence open with his intricate icebreaker, and Harry was starting to think he truly detested the man's gorgeously smooth voice. It was just so... indescribably smug, the kind of arrogance that had to have substance behind it or was just insane, that rubbed him the wrong way. Stark paused, waited for Harry to reply, and Harry didn't. He simply tilted his head in silence.

 

If it was a waiting game this man wanted to play, Harry would not lose. Harry, as a child, had spent hours forced to be silent in a small uncomfortably cramped dark space on threat of extra chores and less food. He could handle some room-mate of Muscle.

 

Tony tapped his fingers on the counter, summoning an infuriating clicking sound that reminded Harry of Bellatrix's evil laughter. His eyes narrowed slightly as Stark continued to foster the demonic sound, weighing the odds of whether this supposed celebrity would truly be missed and how he could get rid of him. No, he was not overreacting, that finger movement was obviously a ploy of great forethought, to bring immeasurable pain to Harry's person. ( _damn it stop plotting people's murders Harry_!)

 


	6. The Aftermath - Part 3

 

_The Aftermath – 3_

 

_Ping._

 

Harry's phone went off like a bomb in a war zone, and Tony appeared dumbstruck that he had a phone in the first place, honestly, he wasn't an imbecile; everyone had a phone nowadays. Harry angstily rolled his eyes, as he fished it from his pocket. It was Michael, again. Harry guessed he was attempting to reignite the conversation from where Harry had abandoned it,

 

_Are you coming into work? Jamie asked me._

 

Jamie usually contacted Michael in the event that Harry didn't show for work, which could almost be counted as consistent as he was so often drunk. _Not that he had a problem, Harry was fine with life, perfectly content_. He weekly became passed out somewhere – in drunken stupor – thus would be unavailable to receive her messages. Sometime he just ignored her, in faint passive-aggressive retaliation for her daily sexual harassment.

 

Harry rolled his shoulders back, the joints clicking like the wavering attention-whore-of-a-sound that timers made. Stress leaked out of him (or was that blood?). He pondered the issue – it seemed unlikely that he could miraculously escape this Stark Tower Compound whilst Mr. Tony Stark existed – _could it be that he needed to..._

 

_(stop planning people's murders, Harry)_

 

Harry's nose scrunched in righteous annoyance and his forehead furrowed like a werewolf's mono-brow. It pained him to worry Mike, seeing as how bothersome Harry already was regularly, but Michael was already (gently) interrogating him. He loathed to lie or omit when graced with direct questions.

 

And – Harry glanced up at Stark who was still staring at him. In a creepy way. – saying he had been imprisoned _to the ever worrisome Michael_ was a sure fine way to garner a police intervention.

 

His teeth met lip in a hazardous chewing motion as he observed Stark's ever odious stare.

 

Perhaps a police call was necessary.

 

_I don't know where I am, and one of muscle's roommates have locked me in. I don't know what to do._

 

There was utter silence for a few moments; which only added to the eeriness of the moment ( _why was Stark being so quiet?_ ). Harry could almost imagine the varying expressions of worry on Mike's normally inexpressive face – the glimmer in his eyes, the beating of his heart speeding only slightly, the clench of knuckles and stretch of skin. Michael would surely be petrified – considering the worst. _Why had I phrased it like that? Why do I always do everything wrong?_ Thoughts clogged Harry's throat up with anxiety, he inched in incriments backwards on the stool, his hips scraping against the fine material. Merlin, guilt roared mercilessly through Harry's stringy veins, plundering his treasure-heart with no shame – what if Mike never recovered, what if he made Mike cry, how worried is Mike? He wasn't tied up or anything, and no one was torturing him. He harmed heedlessly, unnecessarily, he was horrible. Harry could somehow hear Voldemort's demonic voice in his head for a moment – in the crescendo of his panic – in a phantom of memory, blaming him for his godfather's death.

 

He could never swallow the guilt, never quite let it go, it was always there, gnawing on the backs of his enamel, clawing its way in his throat. All of this was just reminding him of all the trouble he put others through.

 

_Police?_

 

Harry looked down. His heart steadied. His rational brain returned. His breath eased into a slow legato inhale and exhale and repeat. _Sweetie, deep breaths, its just a dream_ cooed Inner-Ginny, a rare moment of solace as she held him and spooned him close. Her heart flush against his, skin hot and baby soft, petite nose rested against the crook of his neck. He could feel her with him, calm and gentle, tenderly cocooning him close. He missed her so much in that moment – it was pathetic.

 

Harry reread the text, his eyes scanning over the words as if they were critical launch codes. The world rested on his shoulders as he felt the heavy incriminating embrace of _decision_. What to do. What to do.

 

It was nice to know that he and Michael were on the same wave length. But – Harry stole a big expansive breath – he thought he'd wait a bit, see how this turned out. Some people were just strange, and others simply cared a lot for their room-mates. The police might not be necessary, and anyway, Harry disliked the sound of sirens.

 

_Not now. I'm just going to see how this goes._

 

Michael knew him well, and knew about his childhood and limited sense of self worth. Harry hoped that he wouldn't chalk this refusal up to his self esteem, or some very unneeded emergency services might come banging on the door and embarrass him. He'd hate to waste the police's precious time, what if someone died because of lack of resources? Harry was lethargic and exhausted, he longed to return home and crawl whimpering into the warm arms of his mouldy bed. It would be slanderously awful to appear in some scandal with a could-be celebrity. Especially not at dawn.

 

He switched his phone off, and roughly shoved it back in his red jacket. _Glad that phone isn't a baby or I'd be arrested_.

 

Three beeps echoed through the airy kitchen, wisps of man-made sound, and Stark sauntered over to the coffee maker, revealing a steaming mug which was the catalyst for Harry's nausea. He was not a Coffee Man, he liked sweet tea, _not_ bitter addictive coffee. He already had alcohol on his case _(frickin Mimosa fried-brained assholes),_ he in no way, shape, or form, needed to add another problem to his repertoire. Tony dangerously dropped the mug down on the marble side, and settled in a seat, still deeming to play the waiting game. Harry yawned, the faint pounding in his head growing louder like the rumble of far-off thunder nearing, and rubbed cruelly at his weary eyes.

 

Great. Just great. The pain reliever was wearing off already.

 

...He really wanted a Mimosa right now.

 

The blatant silence was unnerving, it slitted slyly under his skin and slept there; waiting, waiting, he hated waiting. He wasn't spectacular with inaction or suspense. On the contrary, he was the type of man to have anxiety attacks if it lasted too long. Usually he would start a fight in the humid quiet, if it lasted too long, if it gripped under his skin and pushed him too far. He was not a People Person or a Waiting Person; hugs were his worst nightmare, dentist's offices were certainly terrifying in their own right. Here, this very situation, was certainly high up on the list of phobias.

 

“Where are you from?”

 

Tony asked, in an expectant tone, like Harry _had_ to answer him. Harry considered saying nothing, just to spite the man. But that wouldn't get them anywhere. And he _detested_ this inaction. This tension.

 

“Harlem.”

 

A flash of recognition lit Tony's eyes and Harry scrambled to ignore it.

 

Harry felt unexplainably defensive all of a sudden, it was as quick as a whip, just like that. His emotions tumbled over the edge, from caution to sickening rage – as if all the control he'd ever gained from a peaceful life had left him.

 

He'd always wanted a home, a place to call his own. He had found it in Harlem, in that crappy flat with the smell of smoke and vomit on his doorstep; with the possum in his fridge; with the flickering lights; with the nosey drug-addict sexually-promiscuous raunchy rowdy neighbours. He revolted over and adored the late night parties which drove him made. It wasn't special, it wasn't even nice, and the neighbours cussed like sailors from another planet, but it was _Harry's_ place and _Harry's_ home (maybe he'd always been possessive – maybe ever since he knew that this cupboard was _his_ ), and it swindled a warmth in his heart. He vomited over _that familiar glint_ in Tony's eye, the one that crooned in the most darling pandering manner, the one that whispered obnoxiously that he _knew_ that Harlem wasn't the best neighbourhood. And he assumed, because of Harlem, because of one-night-stands, because of the smell of smoke that lingered – just so, just enough – in Harry's hair, because of how Harry dressed, that he wasn't the _best_ type of man. Tony looked, and he snickered, and he imagined that Harry was just that; a crook, a criminal, a druggie, a homeless _fucking lazy citizen_.

 

Or maybe not. Maybe that was Harry projecting. But, somehow, this one _look_ sparked an entire paragraph of exposition thought-process. ( _fourth wall break much *annoyed huff*_ )

 

Harry may be dirt poor, or near enough, with a waitressing job that made most people snigger behind their hands when he told them, but he was a _good_ _man_. Sure, in the first few months of his life here he had stolen, had become harder than where he had left, but that's what the street life did to you. It made you selfish, made you overlook things you never thought you would, made you second guess your morals. Out there, in the harsh of the world, you had to see yourself and you had to change – or you wouldn't last.

 

But, he'd quit that part of the city. Now; he had a place, a steady job, a friend who he could rely on and that wasn't into drugs. Harry was a _good_ man, an honourable man, and he liked to think that if someone needed his help that he would step up and help them. Like a good citizen.

 

This Tony fellow may have a fancy tower, and pyjamas that were more loving than Harry's sheets, but it didn't automatically equate to morality. Harry knew this, just as he knew that pure-bloods, no matter their money, weren't necessarily innocent, but he also knew they weren't necessarily guilty. He chose to believe in people, in what people did, not what they wore nor what they had.

 

“Harlem, huh?”

 

Tony kept staring at him, dissecting him with his eyes, prickling needles over every inch of available ugly lady flesh. _(for his skin was so fair and clear and smooth, that no matter the man-tool he hid in his pants, one would label a lady when they met him_ ). Harry understood that he was asking. What was a 'Harlem man' (although Tony would be thinking 'girl') like Harry was doing with Muscle?

 

In this Tower? In a place of Money? Near Tony? Merlin, it was unthinkable.

 

Just like that the classes that had not separated them on the street, passing by in the busy neighbourhood shopping centre, that which would leave man and man just the same in an emergency evacuation, would be just the same when cuddling close as bombs went off, warm just the same... the abyss was open between them. Their lives shone through. They were worlds apart.

 

A moment later it had become was madness to think a plebeian, a commoner, a peasant, could interact with _Tony fucking Stark_. Their ways betrayed their being.

 

But. However. Nevertheless. Yet, again, it was just a question, a question that without context could mean anything. It was a lone, innocent, string of words, and for all the world knew Tony meant no offence, no harm. For all the world knew Tony was staking no handkerchief to the floor in a challenge of war. But that tone, that fucking looking-down-on-you-from-my-beach-house-latticed-balcony tone, made fireworks explode violently in his chest. _The nerve of this man_.

 

Harry didn't drop his gaze. He didn't yield. His eyes met and sliced and slotted with Tony's gaze. _I am not afraid_. He could insult Harry but Harry wouldn't accept him insulting Harry's home. There were boundaries one did not cross; and Harry had apparently found one of his. This line existed like a breath of fresh air right into Harry's heart, he was somehow light now. He knew that he stood for something.

 

Tony hummed, taking a sip of his coffee, before musing,

 

“I know Harlem.”

 

It wasn't a question but it felt like one. With every flutter of this pretty boy's eyelashes Harry could hear the questions pounding on his temple, almost in sync with his burgeoning hangover headache. 'What are you doing here?' 'Why are you in Harlem?' 'Are you a criminal or what?' 'Harlem has a reputation, do you fit it?' Harry didn't deign the trickster dangerous thoughts with a response, instead he broke eye contact and ignored the smug noise from Tony. It was as if this whole conversation had simply been a test of Harry's limits.

 

It wasn't that he couldn't hold a stare.

 

A beat echoed in the silence that prevailed; the war was done. The staring contest was decided. The brave had won and the weak had lost. _Shame for the blusterous prince, shame for the slut from Harlem_.

 

Harry remembered the painful days of Legilimency. Staring into someone's eyes caused phantom pains (“I swear you have PTSD” he could hear Mike whispering tenderly to him over Mimosas and whiskey one Sunday night) behind his eyes and deep in his barely shielded mind.

 

Occlumency was a joke and Legilimency was a threat.

 

It was something Harry never seemed able to get over, and even now he fought the grimace from his mouth as he smelt the familiar 'Snape smell' of bitterness and old shoes, bringing flashes of potion dungeons and pointless Legilimency lessons to his vision. His throat was suddenly dry, and Harry could almost hear Voldemort's mighty cackle in his head, a mad and tragic sound that sent shivers down his spine, as he thought of Voldemort breaking thoughtlessly into his mind, with no ear to the consequences inflicted on Harry.

 

He had spent months after the war learning about his mind and trying to fix the damage done by Dumbledore, Snape and Voldemort over the years. Not to mention the echoes of trauma caused by that first Halloween Night, a horcrux in his mind, abuse from the Dursleys, and desensitisation to near death experiences thanks to his Hogwarts years. _Excuse him_ if he didn't want to look in people's eyes for too long after that.

 

“It _is_ a public place.”

 

Harry snarked, since most people knew of the town of Harlem. There was a history behind it, one Harry had scoured museums for and had asked locals about when he gathered his confidence. It was mostly known for the large population of African-Americans, 'spoiling' (in some people's eyes) the once Dutch village. Now it was undergoing the popular trend of gentrification, where unlike in the Wizarding World where things stagnated, Harlem had been remodelled and had experienced an influx of new wealth and state of the art establishments. It still had a history behind it, of poverty and the crime that came with any desperation, but the place wasn't the same as before, and Harry felt his heart lurch to defend his new town.

 

Harry parried with this sentiment since it made Tony sound a little dim, and he wanted revenge for the smug vocalisation that had burned the back of Harry's neck in a flush of embarrassment. He wasn't necessarily strong, bold or stubborn in this new world, some of his spirit being broken by the war, and the rest by the separation from his chosen family, and he hadn't exactly fought back against Jamie's sexist remarks or the constant horde of winking lesbians that seemed attracted to him like a moth to a flame. But, Harry still had some back bone, and it had been a long time since he had last lost a staring contest, so this rubbed him the wrong way.

 

To his borderline amusement Tony harrumphed, as if _Harry_ had been the one to start this pseudo pissing contest. He did know, deep down, that they were simply testing each other's limits, but another part of him, the more insistent part who had also told him to 'save the stone', seemed adamant that Stark was just trying to portray dominance to a 'girl' he had just met. Harry knew with his hair mussed, flat chest hidden, and pants on, that he appeared to be a perfect example of the female form – he didn't truly blame Stark for assuming.

 

There was silence between them again, it stretched out, long and wide, along the counter. As if it were a naked lady, completely exposed, untouchable in this point in time, everything frozen and immovable. Time halted as if by magic. And it would have been tense or suspenseful if Harry wasn't so damn tired of this whole thing and wanted so badly to leave. This game between them was just uncomfortable, and Harry needed to have a nap before his headache grew worse!

 

...Merlin he wanted a Mimosa right now. Harry could almost taste the drink on his lips already.

 


	7. The Aftermath - Part 4

 

_The Aftermath – 4_

 

“A _pretty_ girl like you, living in a place like Harlem. Makes a man wonder what kind of _work_ you do?”

 

Harry was an iota away from spitting on him, and maybe punching him in the jaw too. What kind of man was this guy? First he makes subtle digs at Harry's neighbourhood, in some macho psycho display of _whatever_ , and now he is insinuating that Harry is a prostitute! His fists clenched under the kitchen bench where they were resting, and Harry fought hard against the impulse of shooting a stunner at this guy.

 

Was his coffee spiked, or was he just an asshole?

 

His voice was slightly tight, and Harry felt death in his gaze. Perhaps if he stared at him hard enough Tony would explode. It certainly took the phrase 'death glare' to a new level. Harry rumbled, in what he hoped was an even tone, but knew was not,

 

“I'm a waitress.”

 

And damn in that moment did Harry wish he could say waiter! But all of Jamie's insistences made it natural, second nature, for him to think of himself with a girl's title. It was embarrassing, and Harry knew that when Muscle got up and spoke about _him_ it would be an awkward situation. To explain that he was _not_ a _girl_ , but _was_ a _waitress_. It was in times like these that Harry wished there was a uni-sex title that was the norm, perhaps 'server'. Being a male waitress was simply emasculating, in a way that catcalls and kissy faces shot tauntingly in Harry's direction could never match.

 

Tony finished off his coffee, and Harry felt another wave of disgust. Maybe it was the memories of his uncle guzzling great big cups of joe whilst Harry slaved over a hot stove with red raw hands from dish-washing, or the revolting smell that almost pierced Harry's flesh, but he could swear that coffee was even more nauseating than flobberworm mucus.

  
And Harry was a waitress. Dealing with coffee on a daily basis.

  
Tony snarked, in the not obvious but not hidden way that Harry was starting to grow accustomed to (although the prostitute reference had been less than subtle),

 

“A waitress, huh? That doesn't seem like a very difficult job.”

 

Harry was starting to think that Tony might have a crush on Muscle or something, since he was being irrationally rude to a person he had never met before. Was this guy like this with everyone he meets? Did he make rash assumptions and insulting insinuations to all of the population? If this was the case Harry couldn't see how he could be very famous, as his previous mannerisms had seemed to suggest. Maybe he was a comedian, Harry didn't really get comedians so thought the on-the-nose nature of this man could be his convoluted fashion of humour.

 

Harry wanted Tony to be a comedian, since he considered the job even more stupid than waitressing.

 

“How old are you?”

 

What was this, an interrogation? Harry was starting to suspect that Tony thought Harry was going to be the new Mrs. Muscle. He wasn't. That was for sure. And Stark surely would have figured that out if he'd let Harry leave in the first place.

 

“21.”

 

Harry said, thinking about his disjointed birthdays from interdimentional travel. He had left in July of 1999, two weeks before his nineteenth birthday. Harry had arrived in August 2012, and so had skipped almost three weeks and 11 years. He did the confusing math, which made his mind protest, and had worked out his proper age, and new birthday (which he ignored, instead leaving it as his old birthday). He didn't care if his old birthday was incorrect in this time, it didn't truly matter, and he liked to hold onto his old birthday which had held a lot of significance to him. He was a sentimental sod, but Harry didn't have a lot to cling on to from his old world, so thought he at least owed this to himself.

 

Tony nodded, in a way that made Harry wonder if he had guessed him younger or older. The man's eyebrows furrowed for a moment in thought, before smoothing out, and leaving Harry to wonder what he was contemplating. Most of the time people guessed him to be younger, since he apparently had a youthful face and 'doe eyes' as Jamie liked to leer to him. Harry was simply grateful that his scars from youth still remained, meaning he could at least remind _himself_ that he wasn't as naïve as most people assumed, even if they were hidden magically.

 

“Was there any particular reason you slept with 'Muscle'?”

 

Tony asked, an accusing note to his voice that made Harry's eyes narrow in acute displeasure. He didn't like what this man was insinuating, especially with the inference that Harry had to have some sort of ulterior motive to sleep with Muscle. It irked him, irked him badly, that someone would assume so much about his morals and personality; that he was the type of man (or girl as Tony thought) that would sleep with someone for reasons other than lust. Harry knew the world wasn't black and white, and knew that some people didn't have a way out of a bad situation and had to resort to things they wouldn't have normally considered (being homeless taught him that), but he liked to think he was made of better stuff. He liked to think that even if he considered himself ugly, weak willed, overly passive and stupid that he had his _morals_ and strength of will to be proud of.

 

Michael's voice rang in his head, speaking solemnly about Harry's injured self esteem.

 

“I hadn't needed a reason other than Mimosas and desire.”

 

Harry replied, perhaps a pinch too honest for his liking. Tony tilted his head in thought,

 

“D'you have a fully name, _Harry_?”

 

It was a challenge, or at least it felt like one. He didn't exactly understand what kind of game Stark was playing, but Harry knew, at least, that he didn't like it. He hadn't had to face these kinds of mind manoeuvres since his brief and chaotic friendship with Blaise Zabini after the war. Every day with that man had felt like a game, a game Harry certainly couldn't win, and this morning felt chokingly similar.

  
“Luna _Harry_ Granger. I prefer to be called by my middle name.”

 

A normal person would perhaps give their real name, and gender, but Harry was deciding that he just didn't give a fuck at the moment. He didn't know who this 'Tony Stark' was, if that was his real name, and decided he didn't trust the man with that kind of information. Names had power after all, and Harry was now awake enough to realise how silly it had been to just hand it over without knowing who this man was.

 

Some may call it paranoia, Harry called it necessary.

 

Tony's eyes narrowed in distrust, and Harry wanted to sigh. It had been a weird conversation, that was for sure, and he hadn't handled it as well as he used to. After the war Harry had been able to deflect people's insinuations and insistences with practiced ease. Now, after two years living in a world where no one assumed anything of him other than his gender, Harry had grown used to that freedom, and had lost the ability to keep his cool.

 

He was a different man now, to what he had been before. Harry was no longer a hero, he no longer felt a pressing insistence on his heart that he be what others wanted, he no longer let others define him and his destiny. Harry was still weighed down by guilt, still dealt with nightmares every night, and still had the frazzling temper of his mother, but he was older now, freer, and lived in a world where he could be who he wanted. No one judged him in his flat for coming home most nights drunk out of his mind, and no one hounded him to settle into a certain field in life, or with a certain wife. It was... nice.

 

Sure, he missed his old family, but that's what they were now, _old_ , he hadn't seen them in years. Harry had already grieved over their loss.

 

“Well, Luna _Harry_ Granger, it would seem-”

 

Tony had been about to make, what probably was, another insult to Harry, before he was interrupted by a quiet, polite,

 

“Good morning Tony.”  
  


Based on the type of persona Tony had displayed so far – arrogant , uncouth, rude – Harry had assumed he would have made an unsettling comment over the interruption. Instead, to his surprise, Stark simply banged his head onto the table and groaned in displeasure. Harry could almost hear the annoyance in Tony's posture, which was quite frankly impossible since postures didn't make any noise. He swivelled around in his seat, cursing himself for not being more alert, and tried to track down the source of the calm voice. Harry's eyes almost missed _another door_ leading off from behind the kitchen, and he stiffened in shock.

 

A scraggly looking man, who as Mrs. Weasley would say “needs fattening up”, was leaned against the newly appeared door with a look of deep repugnant expectancy. His face was gaunter, and less 'I know I'm gorgeous' than Stark's, and the skin seemed to hang almost in depression, as if even it didn't want to be there. His arms and legs were skinnier than Michael's, which was a feat since Harry could some days swear that Mike was anorexic, and his hair was a dirtier brown than Tony's, less clean and sophisticated and more scrappy and aged, as if he never washed it. His nails were cut and pristine, the only thing that seemed washed, and he smelt faintly of lavender. Harry mused that perhaps he borrowed other people's soap, since normally a man wouldn't be caught dead smelling of lavender. The new man had haunting eyes that reminded Harry of Remus, the same trapped danger they both carried as if they were born with it... but weren't born with it.

 

Harry thought this man was more attractive than Stark, since he wasn't as obviously beautiful as Tony, and that was the sort of person Harry liked to go for. Or, at least, he liked to convince himself he went for. There was a dark part of him that whispered about how he liked a truly muscled man to take him ruthlessly and take the lead. Somehow part of him thought this man just didn't have the strength to have Harry, to protect him, and that Harry couldn't _go_ for a nice guy after living the life he had lived.

 

...Not that he went for guys at all. No, Harry was _completely_ straight. Let's just forget the man he shagged last night.

 

He looked at Harry, and Harry looked at him, but, unlike Tony, he quickly dismissed Harry as normal. Tony had raised his head, to rest on his arm, and was looking at them with intrigue. The new man went over to make some tea, thank goodness, and had a curious glint in his eye that reminded Harry of when Hermione discovered something afoot. He swore she had more curiosity than _himself_ , and _he_ was the one who normally convinced the group to head off onto adventures.

 

Harry slowly relaxed himself back onto the comfy seat, his legs still in position to stand at a moment's notice if need be, and took to observing the two men. Tony was still looking to the new guy with questioning eyes, and the new guy was simply looking at them both dismissively. They stared at each other, with more practice than Harry had, as if trying to convey messages with their gazes. The new guy eventually sat, right beside Harry, and across from Tony. He placed the mug of tea on the kitchen side, and Harry was relieved to see milk in it.

 

“I'm Bruce, Dr. Bruce Banner. May I have your name?”

 

Harry smiled at the warm tone that reminded him more and more of Remus, wondering absently what he was a doctor in. The man had gentle eyes, even if they were haunted, and a long forgotten part of him longed to trust this man. He quickly stomped down on the feeling, remembering how he trusted the 'kind' Mrs. Figg as a child, and decided to answer.

 

“Harry.”

 

Bruce nodded, taking a large gulp of his tea which seemed to offset his personality. Once drank he turned to Tony and said, almost accusingly,

 

“I thought you were with Pepper.”

 

As he said so his eyes filled with pain, a betrayal. Harry noted the hickey on Bruce's neck, the flush of his lips, and the matching blush on Tony's face. There was a connection there, in the way Tony deferred to him, in the subtle subconscious gestures they made; _feet connecting against the side in muscle memory, arms reaching out only to realise they weren't alone, eyes meeting in a semblance of mixed forgiveness and puzzlement._

 

Tony's eyes were wide, shocked, looking between Harry and Bruce in definite confusion. He seemed to choke on air, pointing between the two in confused disbelief, before saying almost urgently, pointing at Harry in a way that he wasn't accustomed to,

 

“No! No no no! I'm not with her! I thought she slept with you!”

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and turned to Harry who just shrugged. He wasn't sure what was going on, but didn't want to be involved. Harry was already majorly too far apart from his normal life by being in this nonsensically expensive tower in the first place, the least he could do was try not to get involved. The doctor didn't look quite convinced, and looked between the two of them once more, before sighing. He asked Tony, as if Harry wasn't even there,

 

“Then what is she doing here. Its near impossible to get past the security.”

 

Why bother correcting them of his gender? It wasn't as if he was ever going to see them again, and he'd rather not have to explain he was simply a girly looking boy. It was always an embarrassing thing to tell people. Harry thought it would be easier just to pretend he was a girl for the time being, or at least not convince them otherwise, until he left.

 

Tony fitted in one accusatory look at Harry before returning his gaze to Bruce. He said defensively at the questioning stare he was receiving,

 

“The hell if I know. I woke up and she was just standing there, staring out the window like an imp. She said she slept with 'muscle', and I thought, since, because of the big green guy, that she was referring to you.”

 

Bruce's eyes narrowed again, looking to Harry this time, as if not believing what he was hearing,

 

“Who did you sleep with?”  
  


Harry didn't like all the attitude going on around him. He didn't _have_ to reveal his sexual exploits to a bunch of strangers, and it was down right insulting that they expected him to. He was locked in this tower, for no other reason than being there, and didn't appreciate the inquisition one bit. But... Harry didn't have the same strength of character as he used to, he was tired and his headache was getting worse. He figured if he just answered their question then they would let him go, and he could have a sleep at home before coming into work.

 

“I don't know his name. He was muscled, very muscled, with blonde hair, armour and some sort of hammer.”

 

Harry fought the blush from his cheeks as he imagined what had gone down that night, along with the disbelieving stares of Banner and Stark. He restrained himself from sinking down in his seat, and instead pretended that it was Jamie who was asking these invasive questions, something he had built up a resistance to.

 

If Tony had been holding his coffee cup he would have dropped it in shock, Harry guessed by the expression on his face. Bruce simply placed his tea down very slowly, a look of deep comprehension on his face, as if realising the answer to life. He said to Stark,

 

“Its good that he's over Jane.”

 

Tony blinked, looked at Harry again, before saying very insultingly,

 

“But with _her_? ...I mean, okay, she's pretty, but she lives in _Harlem_ as a _waitress_. Thor is a god, a literal god, and he shacks up with _her_.”  
  


Harry was starting to suspect that Muscle, the man who was hunky beyond belief, was not strictly human at all. He also was starting to suspect that if Tony kept this up he would be forced to smack him, in a fit of non-passivity, and Harry would probably end up with something much worse than cheeks bruised red from embarrassment. Perhaps he would even end up in some sort of eternal battle against the very strange room-mates of Muscle.

 

As Tony continued to rant about Harry's failings a spike of self doubt and self hate flared inside him. Harry wasn't... that bad, was he? He was... girlish, yes, not very pretty in his point of view, and whenever he brought the glamours off his scars he was even worse. But... he was _okay right_? Harlem wasn't... a bad place, sure it wasn't anything like Stark Tower, but it wasn't some slum, filled with drug gangs and high murder rates. Harlem was... home. Harry wasn't, well, he wasn't stable, or very nice, but he was... okay. Wasn't he?

 

Bruce glared at Tony once he saw the very sad expression on Harry's face. He gestured to the 'girl' curling in on herself, and wished that Tony could have a bit more tact. Tony suddenly stopped his tirade, rolling his eyes at the pathetic person (in his eyes), and huffed.

 

_Ping._

 

Bruce's eyebrows raised in confusion as Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket. He didn't know why these people were so surprised that he had a phone, but he was sick of it. He was a man! A man, and he was on the verge of tears. Harry wasn't a person to let himself be vulnerable, and all these insults reminded him far too much of his childhood. He didn't have thick skin anymore, moving to this new universe where the main insult was to his gender had made him more receptive to people and kindness. The constant reassurance from Michael had restored some of Harry's belief in himself. He wasn't used to this.

 

_Are you home yet?_

 

It was Michael, for who the hell else would it be.

 

_I'm going to go now, I think a more sane person is here so I will ask him if I can leave._

 

Harry switched off his phone and turned to Bruce with an expectant expression. He said, trying to keep his voice off the edge of panic,

 

“Can I leave now?”

 

Bruce nodded, pointing to the door he had entered through, and murmuring about an exit. Tony watched in disbelief as Harry lifted himself from the chair and made his way out of the door. Harry saw Stark turn to Banner just as he was leaving the room, and hoped deep in his heart that he would never have to see them again.

 

It was a shame that Harry was fate's bitch (no matter the universe), meaning anything he hoped was instantly drained down the plug.

 


	8. Back To Normal - Part 1

 

_Back to normal - 1_

 

Harry yanked slightly at the hem of his skimpy waitresses uniform. He was glad that he was allowed to wear trousers underneath, otherwise everyone would be able to see his skinny legs, achingly flexible. He could almost hear Jamie's leer from across the room as she watched him with hungry eyes. How he damned his gorgeous girl's body! He brushed the bangs out of his face and made his way out into the dangerous jungle of the catering industry. People called out for service, or waited patiently. Harry, secretly, always served the quiet ones first in a fit of half-passive revenge.

 

He balanced two trays on the palms of his upturned hands, carefully holding them, yet still walking at a speed which would make most power-walkers jealous. Harry, over the year and a bit working here, had mastered the art of waitressing; the memorising, the balancing, the coy comments from lesbians who wanted to drag him to their houses by their teeth. Harry smiled uneasily as Veronica, a regular, leaned in to kiss his cheek.

 

Sexual harassment; the number one reason why the job had been so easy to get. It was a well known folk lore that waitresses from _Jamie's Café_ were easy, and that it was basically okay to smack their behinds as they went. Oh, yeah, they would even _smile_ at you. Harry grimaced as Veronica, a short red headed woman with far too much resemblance to his mother, took her coffee (gross) with a whispered caress of his cheek. And not the cheek on his face.

 

It was also a very well known lesbian/bi drinking establishment, with pro-gay and women rights activist groups often using the place as their headquarters. With nice decorating, paintings made by local artists, a large dining hall and tiny kitchen, it was an oasis for the oddly inclined. Jamie, also, 'bless her' (uh don't), made it quite clear that Harry was her 'favourite' waitress, with whispered 'sweet nothings' in his ears that used to make him blush a fine scarlet.

 

There were three full time waitresses at Jamie's Café. Harry, as this was his only source of income. And Amy and Marissa.

 

Amy was an almost freakishly tall woman, who caked herself in make-up, and wore the waitress outfit without the optional tights. She wore bright red lipstick, offered to kiss every customer on the cheek if they wanted, and dressed to impress. Amy was what Harry would call superficial, but would never say it out loud, since that would surely be the end of him. Especially since Amy was Jamie's bisexual sister.

 

The first thing Amy did when she first met him was look him up and down and say that 'you'd look a lot prettier with long hair.' As if his aim, and every other assumed girl's, in life was to look prettier. When Harry had returned the next day, his hair even shorter, she had harrumphed, and since then they were enemy co-workers for life. Amy was the type of girl where you either took her fashion advice or she became obsessed with making you look better (commenting on your appearance) every time she saw you, becoming an enemy in the process.

 

Marissa was more subdued than Amy and Jamie (thankfully). She wore large leather jackets (boy, Harry wished he could afford one, they looked so cool) over her revealing waitressing outfits, and long black tights. She was dark haired, somehow fitting a stereotype Harry had founded that dark haired people were usually more subdued, and had a very ordinary face. There were small crinkles around her eyes, from the apparent constant squinting she did as a child (with no one buying her glasses), and the small, character building, wrinkles were magnified by the large rectangular leopard framed glasses she wore now.

 

Marissa had originally been indifferent to Harry, taking one look at his baggy clothes from the homeless shelter and striking him out as uneducated (she was a bit of a snob). Overtime she warmed up to him somewhat, impressed by his adaptive waitressing skills, but still not entirely sure that he was a man. One night, after Harry got drunk on Mimosas (“You're a girl, Mimosas are for girls!” Marissa cried when she saw his drink arrive.) with Michael and Marissa down in a more lively pub than normal, he tried to _convince_ Marissa that he was a man by stripping in front of her. She was impressed, apparently, and thought he was “beautiful” (not the compliment he really wanted), and soon dragged him to her house and had her wicked way with him.

 

After Marissa slept with him she became a work friend, a work friend that often tried to seduce him sober and failed, and was quick to defend him against Jamie's remarks about him being a girl by saying “Trust me, he's _all man_.” Harry couldn't say he didn't feel _slightly smug_ , but mostly he felt it was an invasion of his privacy, and a violation of the assumed respect one would have over a sexual encounter. It wasn't as if Harry ever made comments about _Marissa's flexibility_ , but, knowing her, she would have liked it, no matter how disrespectful Harry may have felt it to be.

 

Today Amy was home sick, or not actually sick but sleeping with a patron from the café with Jamie's approval, and it was just Harry and Lotus manning the store. Lotus was a young, teenage waitress, who sometimes worked after school, never spoke to Harry, and always had her scraggly strawberry blonde hair in a hairnet. Jamie was in the kitchen, making the sandwich specials, and flirting with the milk delivery man who didn't usually come this close to their closing week. Harry's boss seemed to be making some progress as Harry saw the man flush an unsightly colour before smiling coyly at the woman almost draped over him. Lotus rolled her eyes at him as she saw him staring at Jamie's flirtations. Headphones were in her ears, as she handed people their plates and removed the dirty ones from tables. Harry ducked his head slightly, not wanting to insight the teenager's ire, and walked over to take people's orders.

 

Harry headed to a table near the back, quickly dodging the reaching hands that tried to find his luscious behind, and brought the pencil from behind his ear and flipped a new page of his notepad. He looked over the writing utensil and was pleasantly surprised to see Michael sitting there, finely dressed as usual, looking over the menu. Harry said politely, smiling at seeing his friend who was no doubt here to check up on him,

 

“What can I get you, sir?”

 

Michael gave Harry a secretive smile, knowing that the waitresses were not allowed to slack off during business hours, and ordered a plain breakfast meal and tea. Harry went through the normal and uninteresting process of order, collect, deliver, and soon Michael was with his breakfast, a blueberry muffin and small fruit pie, and his normal ginger tea with large dollops of honey to mask the taste.

 

By the point Mike began to eat, it was three 'o' clock, an odd time for breakfast, but his friend said it was one of the only times when the café was almost empty. Harry asked Jamie for a lunch break, and she obliged, her tone revealing she was still a little miffed at him missing work this morning. When he came in late her mood had only being pacified when she found out that Harry had slept with someone... a man. Jamie was happy to have new material for her suggestive flirting, believing the reason Harry didn't get hooked on her advances was because he was actually gay. Which Harry denied to no use.

 

Harry made his way through the almost empty café, sitting across from Mike, and accepting the blueberry muffin when he offered it. They ate in almost silence, his Asian friend gazing speculatively at Harry's skimpy outfit every now and again, until the food was gone and tea was drained away. Lotus scowled as she fetched the plate from them, glancing at Harry with annoyance, and Michael stared at him long and hard.

 

“You slept with someone.”

 

Mike was nothing if not straight to the point. Harry nodded slightly, an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks, causing Michael to observe him in deep thought.

 

“A man.”

 

Harry added as an afterthought, secretly proud of his friend not even seeming to recognise the gender as mattering. It was good to have not only an accepting friend, but one who didn't see the big deal with it. Harry, inside, was still adamant of his straightness, but doubts were starting to be cast as he remembered his enthusiasm from the night before. He reminded himself that he had been very drunk, a balm for the taunting memories of his cousin's homophobic insults.

 

Mike asked, cautiously, with audible worry displayed by the lump protruding from his throat,

 

“And it was consensual?”

 

Harry nodded, very sure of himself that time. He saw Michael's shoulders relax slightly in relief, as if he had expected the worst. Harry ached for causing his friend pain, and looked at Mike with reassurance that he was okay. He stared at Harry for a long time, as if assessing the truth of it all, and said,  
  
“You have not slept with someone for a long time.”

 

Eight months. And Muscle was the third person Harry had slept with ever. The first man Harry had ever even kissed, let alone fucked. It was distinct, a milestone some may preach. Mike placed a hand on Harry's, making him flinch in a way that he hadn't done in a long time. He simply waited until Harry had calmed again, knowing for some reason or another than Harry was not comfortable with human contact, but needing to let his friend know he was there for him.

 

“Can you explain what happened this morning? How you said you were locked in?”

 

Harry nodded, speaking of Stark Tower (“Tony Stark, he's a billionaire playboy who used to make weapons and now makes messes of New York with his suits.” Mike said, when Harry got to the part about not knowing who he was. Harry wasn't sure how bad 'suits' could be, but simply nodded), the strange people that had found him, and the weird conversation that had happened that morning. Michael listened attentively, occasionally adding his own opinion, and laughing at Harry's pout when he got to the part about everyone assuming he was a girl. Their conversation ended on a high note, and Mike hugged him in farewell, his friend possessing that peculiar smell of wood-chips and slushies.

 

He then went back to work, his world having righted itself after the monstrosity of a drinking night, and could only hope that things simply went back to normal.

 

\----0000----

 

Exhaustion coursed through Harry's muscles as he made the short-ish walk from Jamie's café to the bottom of his apartment complex, his boss's eyes following his behind hungrily as he took a step outside and out of her range. He was shivering, having forgotten to bring a jacket, and tugged his arms around him tightly in an effort to conserve warmth. Harry tried to keep his heart steady as he walked past pockets of late-night drunks and the darkened criminals who waited on his block. Their eyes moved over him, and Harry knew he was recognised as a native, and therefore left alone. He could still remember his first few months living in the area, dodging catcalls, and lingering eyes, until one day he had had enough and beat the man who tried to mug him. Harry left with scratches on his arms and hips, and the other man, who he now knew as his neighbour Jordan, left with bruises the size of fists and a bleeding split lip. They knew to keep away after that, and respected Harry somewhat for holding his own against an average fighter.

 

Who knew wars could come in handy when trying to learn self defence?

 

Tonight he was heading home alone, since Michael had left to do his shift at the disco-rink that night. Jamie had made him stay late since he missed work that morning, and had spent the last hours watching him with predatory eyes as he cleaned the diner and swept the kitchen. She hadn't managed to snag the milk delivery man after all, and had been filled with unexpressed lust, managing to sate herself by watching Harry work in his skimpy maid's outfit, him hearing her whooshes of breath every time he bent over to pick something off the ground. Damn, whenever he was with Jamie she made him feel so insecure, even more so when she casually mentioned she had a strap-on, and gave him that _knowing_ _look_ now that she thought she knew his preferences.

 

Its not as if Harry were actually gay.

 

Harry had blushed, like a school child after having a boy hold their hand for the first time, in a way he hadn't done so in a long time, but Jamie had reminded him of the night before and how he had _taken it_ so enthusiastically.

 

Now he was walking with heavy arms, limbs filled with lead, and body shivering from the cold. Harry ignored the looks from some of the 'boys' who were hanging by a trash-can bonfire, and smoking, the ends of their cigarettes lighting up like embers in the night. Harry could hear his teacher's voice lecturing about the dangers of smoking in his ears, and could vaguely remember looking out the window at Autumn leaves. His school day's seemed so long ago now, a lifetime before, another world filled with pain and shame and freedom. They were curious, as Harry didn't normally leave the café dressed in only his waitress uniform. One of the younger boys, wearing a flat cap and jacket that looked stolen, whistled as he trailed hungry eyes up Harry's legs.

 

These were the kind of boys who _took_ without asking.

 

Harry walked a little faster, ignoring Dray's ( _Draco Malfoy wannabe_ Harry sneered sardonically) coy and slightly excited call over his shoulder, of how they had a spare spot and plenty of _them_ to go around. He closed his eyes and ignored the disappointed shouts as he turned a corner. Harry knew not to blame them, it was how they were raised, taught to think of women, or womanly men in Harry's case, as objects. They'd been birthed by druggies and crooks, learnt as toddlers to cuss like injured grandfathers, and hadn't been given a chance to be different. Still, it didn't stop the rapid paling of Harry's face as he ignored the comments. He was used to them, especially in his part of Harlem, but it didn't make it any better.

 

After a few more streets and corners, flattening against buildings so as not to be caught in the headlights of passing cars—a habit Harry had picked up sneaking around the muggle world when he had been hiding from Death Eaters—Harry arrived at the door at the bottom of his apartment complex. He pulled the key out from the small pocket of his uniform, hand pale and shaking from the icy cold, and slotted it into the lock, turning it and rattling the door-frame a couple times when it didn't click. The door was cream, with peeling paint and the number _122_ in large metallic characters, the middle _2_ wonky and turned slight off centre hanging on a loose nail. Eventually, after banging the door a couple more times it creaked open with a loud yawn, and Harry slipped inside.

 

He walked past the perpetually broken elevator, wondering if some homeless man had made it his home for the night, and strode with purpose to the stairway. Harry's apartment was three stories up, and on nights like this he did not envy the trudging climb he had to make. With old shoes borrowed from Mike, having had walked barefoot after failing to find his shoes at Stark Tower, Harry clambered slowly up the steps, muscles and stairs creaking in pained annoyance. Holding onto the faulty handrail Harry made his way up to his story without falling over, and shuffled his way over to his door. It was a red door Harry had recently painted with the canister of high quality paint that Mike had bought him for his birthday this year.

 


	9. Back To Normal - Part 2

 

_Back to normal – 2_

 

Harry fished out his second key (his flat key), exchanging it for the key to the door to the complex. He teetered on entry when he heard a crackled and amused voice from one door down, rusty from smoking and drugs,

 

“Evans, a bit late to be back from work, and sober too, one would think you've got a mistress.”

 

Harry sighed, and removed his hand from the key, swivelling to stare at his neighbour, Jordan. He was a black man, cliché in a way Harry didn't care to analyse, and only wore sweatpants and vests that exhibited his muscled arms. He possessed two tattoos, one above his right eye that said _once a digger always a digger_ , which Harry didn't really comprehend or understand the meaning (or purpose) of, and a tattoo of a bright aquamarine fluorescent dragon on his right bicep, which he boasted increased his strength – inner and outer (whatever that meant). Jordan was tall, bald with faint stubble on his head, and often came home with multiple women or cases of beer curled in his arms – such 'possessions' interchangeable in his mind as many of the hood believed. His face was average looking, with the exception of his blue eyes which Harry didn't see much in that shade, a very pale periwinkle that contrasted sharply with the pupil. When Harry had first set eyes upon him, he had thought Jordan was blind due to the shade, but that thought hadn't lasted long when the man had conspicuously roved his eyes down Harry's body in unveiled lust.

 

“Maybe I have.”

 

Harry huffed defensively, becoming agitated that everyone believed he was so undesirable and frigid (had he not slept with someone last night?). Jordan simply laughed at his pout (as if he were a grumpy toddler and _just so cute_ ), strutting confidently over to where Harry leant on the tenuous support of his door, and inspected his waitress uniform with an expression likened to disappointment. Jordan, same as everyone, had initially assumed Harry was a girl. He, in particular, had cornered Harry one night after work, spouting lecherous things as he shoved the waitress against the wall, only to be shocked ( _kaaaarrmaaa_ the maniacal part of him cackled) when he groped him and stumbled across a dick... and a punch in the face, since Harry didn't _really_ appreciate being groped in the dead of night (it surprisingly wasn't one of his hobbies – to be sexually assaulted). Now whenever he looked at Harry he attempted not to check him out, not out of respect for Harry, but rather he now knew Harry was not a girl and therefore was 'off limits'. Just as Jordan perceived women as objects, he was _not_ a fanatic of “ass-sniffing fags”. ( _probably not a good idea to mention his encounter with Muscle then_ )

 

His voice exited at a low timbre, and rumbled over Harry like fire,

 

“Nah, you're wearing your work clothes, and everyone knows you're as frigid as a nun. Evans, you're a terrible liar.”

 

Harry emitted a long deep audible exhale, terribly tired (both mentally and physically), and settled for nodding. It didn't matter what Jordan assumed or believed about him, especially when it looked like the man was just hoping to get a rise out of him. It remained a game Jordan played ever since Harry defended himself against the mugging, (which had occurred two weeks after the groping – Harry was just the _luckiest girly-man in the whole damn alternate universe_ ). Jordan had apparently 'found' the fire within Harry and tried as much as he could to bring that anger up to the surface again. He didn't want Harry to be a complete and irrevocable doormat, a desire which Harry didn't know whether to be grateful for or offended by, or even how to rationalise.

 

So he ignored and dismissed it.

 

“I'm going to sleep, Jordan, I've had a rough day.”

 

The black man agreed (by proxy of a nod) in understanding, and simply watched as Harry opened his door and shut it from the inside. Harry ignored his neighbour as he entered, grateful to be back in the cosy and safe space of his apartment, a place he had transformed into a haven within the dangerous world of his block.

 

When Harry had first rented the flat, with only a few days pay as a deposit, and clothes stolen from the streets, he had entered the settlement with a sense of relief. This relief had been quickly replaced by disgust as Harry – actually opened his eyes and stopped humming victoriously – realised the state of the flat. No furniture, bar the toilet, shower and basic kitchen supplies. There had been a fold out bed frame, with no mattress, and for the first few months of living there Harry had slept on the floor. The paint had been peeled, ash-black- _I-want-to-eat-your-kidneys_ -pirate-mould stowed judiciously under the kitchen sink, the floors barren and rickety, and the window broken and/or smudged so it was no longer a window but a dirty piece of glass decoration _(oh how magnificently splendidly fine)._ Cracks littered the plaster, and there were remnants of scorch marks and dead animals in the small cramped space made for the fold out bed.

 

Slowly, bit by minuscule bit, over time, by saving his money and buying only cheap products _(no splurging like the old days when he was Lord Potter),_ Harry managed to turn the place into his sanctuary, with new paint on the walls, a rug on the dining side of the kitchen/dining room, new furniture and clean actually-usable windows. Harry bought a couch, which he fitted in the dining room since there was no lounge room, and a second hand mattress, double checked for an insect infestation. Soon, the crowded shelter was filled with home made drawings, shelves filled to the brim with educational scriptures and the odd fiction book, and a functioning lock on the door and window. Harry even stitched and pleated curtains with his limited sewing skills, using cheap cloth from op shops, trying to brighten up the place and use his spare time on Sundays wisely. He had a home now, not a very prestigious opulent mansion-esque home or one with a million bedrooms and bathroom en suites by the dozen, but a cosy one and a substantial amount of savings at the bank from his diligent working. Sure, the window sometimes rattled, there was graffiti on the brick wall adjacent to his only view, the hinges on the fold-out bed were old and rusted, creaked like the weathered weary bones of an old grandma, and the walls were far too thin (leading to many unwanted olfactory presentations of Jordan's exploits), but Harry managed, simply happy to have a place to stay and not really looking for anything better. ( _you don't deserve better, do you?_ )

 

That night he shuffled in through the door, throwing it shut behind him with a sharp slam, only remembering to lock it at the last minute. Once the door clicked in satisfaction, Harry felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders, causing him to slump forward minutely and exhale smoothly until his lungs fell empty. He was home.

 

Harry was dead on his feet, exhausted after a long day of work and having not fully rested that morning with Mimosas still in his system. He wasn't as resilient as he used to be, and was quite used to the pattern of getting drunk, going to bed _reasonably_ _early_ , and being okay for work the next day – not staying out all night and fucking random men at bars. But, he realised, groaning mentally, he couldn't go to sleep yet. Harry hadn't eaten anything that day except for the blueberry muffin Mike had gifted him. Sure, he didn't _feel_ that gnawing pain of hunger yet, but would rather not break his habit of eating at least two meals a day.

 

After the war, when Harry had fallen apart, he had become inconsolable – struck with the knowledge that so many people had died and that Harry had actually killed – he had fallen into a pattern of not eating unless forcibly given food. After he married Ginny it wasn't as much of an issue, for she would make sure to feed him daily, nagging him with those adorable expressions of hers as he brought breakfasts into the library with him, just to sate her. Ginny was also changed by the war, the scars of grief running down her sides in thick streaks, and even deeper imprints of Tom Riddle's stay in her mind leaving invisible burns along her skin. Some nights they curled up together in front of the fire, Ginny pulling Harry into her arms and under a blanket, both whispering shamefully in softened voices why they missed Voldemort. After their confession they would simply hold each other, tightly, as if afraid to let go and fall into old memories, or on some nights make love.

 

Harry distinctly remembered one night, with Ginny pushing down on him again and again, rug burn chafing at the soles of his feet, the ripe flowery scent of his red-headed wife filling him up to the brim, hands clenched down into the rug as he panted.... Ginny spilling Tom's name from her lips as she gasped and arched upwards, muscles tensing in pleasure. They had layed there, still connected, with Ginny's nimble moon-pale fingers stroking through his hair, in silence, the only sound the crackle of the evening fire, both deadly frightened to break the peace between them and face what might come after. She had speared her eyes to him, questioning, wondering if she had took it too far. It was almost ritual that they discussed Voldemort and the twisted ways in which he had marked them both... but never had she mentioned her attraction to the young Tom Riddle, and never had she poured his name like molten gold from her pursed lips. Harry had paused for a moment, letting the phantom sound of his name in the air brush over his skin, a warm tingle of memory trickling down his spine, before looking back to Ginny, whose head was tilted to the ground in shame. Harry hadn't even felt betrayed, nor surprised, especially considering some of the compliments both Harry and Ginny gave to Voldemort's memory.

 

...and there was the small fact that on some nights, Harry too, came with Tom Riddle on his tongue, in a whispered chant, a begging serenade, back arched up to the sky in a mottled prayer.

 

He had to wonder what other things the diary had done to her. And why, a _straight_ man like Harry, could still remember how achingly handsome Tom Riddle had been. How the curve of his eyebrows were more beautiful and fascinating than Ginny's.

 

It had been ordinary from then on, for them to shag, and to lay claim to their monster by spewing his name from their lips. It was a secret they both held, a burgeoning attraction, a shame, and one both would take to their graves. Perhaps they were mocking him, by imaging his hands on their skin, but mostly it was for they both knew Tom had already taken much of who they were... and they had both become entranced and devoted to the devil.

 

In the new world Harry had no one to remind him to eat, and realised, at the same time he realised he had a new chance for life, that he would need to remember for himself. After those first harrowing weeks homeless, with little motivation, and weeping for the loss of his family, Harry barely ate, even when opportunities presented themselves. He grew thinner, ribs pressed tight against his skin, and legs growing so weak he could barely walk.

 

Harry had been helpless, and he never wanted to feel that way again.

 

He sleuthed his way over to the small kitchen, glad he was still wearing Mike's old shoes since the floor was filthy, and would have been criminal to expose it all to his bare feet. He dumped his two keys and empty wallet onto the counter, next to the fruit bowl, and made his way over to the fridge. It was the fridge that had come with the place, packed inside a complimentary raccoon which had somehow snuck into the place. It had been a _joyful_ occasion when Harry had walked into the kitchen and had smelt dead meat rotting where food normally went. Luckily, there had been a sale on cleaning fluids in the local supermaket, so it had only taken him a couple hours, some sweat and garbage bags to neaten up the kitchen to a feasibly presentable level.

 

Harry slid open the door, the automatic light from inside flickering on like the warm glow of a person's soul, and he reached a hand past some of the leftovers from the Christmas meal he had cooked last week (sharing it with Mike and exchanging gifts on the rugged couch). Harry kept forgetting to bring them into work as cold lunches, and he worried that soon they would be off. Out of the cooler he pulled a half eaten box of potato waffles, another guilty pleasure he liked to indulge himself in. It did help that they were all very cheap and accessible – he held suspicions that others may carry the same _potato-waffle-gimme-gimme-gimme_ affliction.

 

He quickly shoved one in the oven, remembering with some disgust how some people cook _potato_ waffles in _toasters_. It was absurd and, in Harry's opinion, ruined them. Harry temporarily abandoned the room, making his way over to the 'bedroom', which was just the extended hallway from the bathroom where the fold out bed was, and dug around in his chest of drawers for some comfy clothes to sleep in. He removed grey loose fitting pants and a red and white patterned throw- on jumper, quickly changing out of his demeaning work outfit and putting it in the laundry basket perpendicular to the bathroom. Harry didn't own a washing machine in his tiny flat, and instead, like all other residents, used the joint one on the second floor.

 

It was a harrowing thought that he had not one, but two maid outfits in his possession.

 

When Harry made his way back to the kitchen, he realised that his waffle was done, and proceeded to eat it plate-less with far three-person's-worth of too much salt. He had three plates in his house, but down right refused to wash them. After years working as the Dursleys slave one might have assumed that it was in Harry's instinct to be clean, but, once he tasted the freedom of dirt and mess he couldn't go back.

 

He was almost as addicted to it as he was alcohol.

 

\----0000----

 

The next few weeks passed as ordinarily as generic soap. Harry came to work as usual each day, spending hours stared at by customers and touched in 'innocent' ways. He called Mike afterwards declining the numerous offers to drink, and made his way back to his flat, ignoring the subtle jibes from Jordan, spending his nights sleeping or drawing. He had noticed two new regulars, who caught his attention, and who Harry thought might be a couple. They dressed slightly differently to the other patrons, wearing the same brands of clothes, but ones that were seemingly newer or of higher quality, which was not often seen (except by rich drug lords) in _Jamie's Café_ , a place with a 'reputation'.

 

There was a red headed woman, who Harry had labelled Red in his mind. She had a bob cut, a sharply angled face, and body that Harry, if he were actually a girl, would die for. Red was tall, and muscled, although not abnormally so, but rather her impressive physique fit her body type to a tee. She wore hair-clips some days, which just felt... wrong. Red had green eyes, a more normal colour than Harry's very vibrant green, and almost mistakable for a dulled aquablue. She looked _similar_ to how he remembered his mother, but her height and features were so different, other than colouring, that he didn't think it was too eerie. She always ordered the specials, something that never seemed to not pique his interest (the specials were pretty crappy to be frank, so were rarely ordered), and seemed to stare at Harry a lot when she thought he wasn't looking.

 

Her boyfriend, and Harry wasn't entirely sure they were dating, came in half as much as her, and bought greasy food. He had short brown hair, the colour of light oak bark, and a square sort of face if you looked at it straight on. John, as Harry had taken to think of him, wore mostly suits, or finely threaded clothes, and made him wonder if Red was a gold digger. They ate together most days, stared intently at one another sometimes, but Harry wasn't convinced it was of mutual love.

 

The reason for his doubt was that Red stared at him _a lot_ , in a very similar way to how the other lesbians stared at him. Eyes wide and taking him in, curling up his legs and sides like he was hiding weapons under his clothes, or as Jamie would smirk “weapons of desire”. Red seemed to be constantly glancing, nervous, clearly split and undecided. And of course there were also the quick switches of character, from a woman engrossed with Harry to a woman in love with John. He thought she was a lesbian, who was only with John for his fancy clothes.

 

And nothing had proved him wrong yet.

 

\----0000----

 


	10. The Kiss and The Ruin - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I figure I should begin these warnings early, so that no one misses them. There's going to be some Dubious Consent and Internal Conflict in the next few chapters. It will be nothing more than kissing and light petting, but I know Harry's train of thought could trigger stuff (however, it should be noted that the best – although know that I am no expert – way to eradicate triggers is via exposure therapy, but I also acknowledge that its your choice, and should be done with the influence and opinion of actual mental health practitioners.) I know that it most probably won't trigger * a lot * of people, but some might like the warning to prepare/skedaddle/put on their empathy helmet. Anyhow, peace <3

_The_ _Kiss and The Ruin - 1_

 

At this point of unconscious (yet startlingly self aware) desperation, Harry had to admit he was probably certifiably poor. Not that it mattered – but _still_. It did irk him occasionally to consider the _literal mansions_ he had left behind, not that he was materialistic, but _life had to get better than this._

 

Harry doggedly worked the night shift, since Amy had fallen ill and couldn't come in that day. It was warm inside the diner, a little haven of hope in the freezing neighbourhood. Snowfall melted on the ground, drenching people's shoes in the mush, and forcing the homeless to take shelter, out of the cold, for fear of hypothermia. January was almost over, and Christmas decorations were starting to be removed and tossed into boxes where they would hibernate until next December. Harry was glad for the warmth – it would surely be ice cold in his apartment by now, there was a silver lining to working this late after all.

 

The café was close to empty, seats stacked back, kitchen with the scantest most paltry amounts of food, and only three living souls in the whole establishment; Jamie napping the back, Harry serving what was left, and Red, sitting alone in her normal seat, leaned against the window at the far side, her breath pooling in white mist against the glass.

 

She wore a large navy blue beanie, and leather jacket, hair pulled up in a bun under her hat. He spied her hands rubbing together, most likely in an attempt to preserve warmth, which was illogical seeing as the diner was already a sauna. Harry sauntered over, glad that in the colder months Jamie allowed the waitresses to adorn jackets and even skin-tight pants some days. He stood, quiet and patient, as Red's eyes trailed down the menu, a hand coming over to tuck a strand of rebellious hair behind her ear.

 

She had already drank a vanilla latte, the froth around her mouth long since gone, and desired a meal more substantial – perhaps to sate a latent and until now ignored hunger. _A midnight snack_ Harry mused. It was late, almost twelve at night, the moon hung high in the sky, hanging from the invisible chord of moonlight and a sun's jealousy. By then they would have normally closed, since most of the 'queer' customers would be out clubbing or back home with their loved ones and small limpet infants. A dainty hand flipped through the crimson and auburn striped menu, as if she hadn't read it a thousand times before, and Harry felt a spike of arousal in his gut as he remembered Muscle's dainty hands, so similar to Red's digits, the slant of their hands so similar, the pedicure of wealthy nails on skin in treacherous lustful lustre-brimmed fantasy, on and _in_ him, curling expertly, preparing him for something so much more-

 

“I would like the Vermicelli Salad, please.”

 

Red purred, looking up at Harry through darkened green eyes, a knowing tilt to her lips. Harry shook his head slightly, embarrassed at remembering his encounter with Muscle so vividly, especially considering how sober and _not gay_ he was (how adamant he was when debating _that perception of events_ ). He agreed quickly, spying a familiar dangerous, almost predatory, look in Red's eyes (he'd seen it on monsters before, both man and creature suffered that cruel glint), and scampered off – away – to fetch the meal.

 

She was in luck, for Vermicelli was one of the few things Harry knew how to cook here. Apparently The Dursley Life Training Course did not truly amount to much in the real world, the sum of Harry's cooking experience being eggs and bacon, pasta, Vermicelli Salad, lasagne, nachos, brownies and chicken pot pie. There was also the fact that Harry tried to rebel against his training, by leaving things dirty and doing minimal – if that – cooking, his flat being a perfect example of this protest. The only reason it was even the tiniest amount clean was due to that fact that Harry didn't really possess enough _stuff_ to make it dirty. A waitress's income didn't amount to a fortune, even though he worked full-time. In all honesty it only barely allowed Harry to scrape by and add paltry consistent amounts to his steadily growing savings account.

 

He rushed the pasta, prepared it with finesse and grace ( _I am a dancer_ ), skirt bouncing slightly as he itched and etched and painstakingly scraped a meal together. The fabric was buoyant – probably due to the way it was designed and sewed, perhaps the arrangement of the pleats – and contained a much grander well of energetic vigour than Harry's lethargic body. It was more than a uniform, more than stitches and thread, it livened and breathed as he pirouetted and leapt to and fro within the kitchen, it floated, up up like a flaming meteor, exploding in the night, the slight shimmer and electric flash of light on ash-black satin mystical – black magic.

 

Jamie didn't allow him to cook, knowing he was sub par at best, but she slept soundly now, and what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. Besides, Harry attempted to rationalise with himself, she would surely be even more annoyed if Harry woke her than if he prepared a meal – Jamie was positively drained from all that managing and flirting her day consisted of. Roughly fifteen minutes later he swept up the food with a large factory-standard spoon, dished it onto a cheap ceramic plate encircled in the drab colourless designs of generic-taste flowers, balancing the meal on his upturned palm, before scurrying – simultaneously rushing and stalling – back into the diner.

 

Red sat patiently, one leg over the other in the picture of elegance. As steady and as still as stone, a look of focus in her eyes that Harry couldn't quite explain, black gloved hands resting primly on the table, strands of hair having escaped from behind her ears again ( _why are we never happy? Why do we always escape and look for something more? Isn't it enough? Aren't I enough?_ ) and hanging dead listlessly in front of her face. Harry marched carefully over to her table, laying the food professionally in front of her with a flourish he couldn't quite contain (his dramatic flare was rife tonight – _maybe I am gay_ ). She stared into his very soul with those dark green eyes of hers, pupils tracing over his features, eyes taking the long route from pate to chin, his groves and contours, the arch of his jawline, swirl of his hair, plateau of sharp shoulders and gentle cheekbones, curling around his face as if it were a book to absorb, as if she were tasting the words that made up his appearance – what he appeared to be for the world, who he was in a way _(but is this me?)._

 

They ceased. The air solid, frozen in the quiet warmth of the café, a softness surrounding the situation with a dangerous edge of desire.

 

Harry hedged forward slightly, still bent from depositing the food, balanced on the balls of his feet, deathly still ( _like a ghost, like a ghost, are you even living? Is this your life?_ ) as if afraid to break the moment. Red was born of smoke and metal

 

( _her edges sharp and serrated, her eyes glinting knives in the flickering light of Jamie's Café, her smile a facsimile of machinery – no human lived in her bones_ )

 

as frightening as she was beautiful, grace and precision cramped _(will it fit?) into_ every morsel of her figure, skin sharp and stretched, making all her acute edges and angles even more pronounced, making her seem more dangerous. Eyes yielded, dark and shiny, like the metallic edge of a gun, and her whole being absolutely oozed _predator_. _(am I her prey?_ ) Goosebumps jump up under his skin, of their own reckless inconsiderate accord, and he straightened slowly under her watchful gaze, like a folded up chair righting itself to be perfectly parallel _(to be the perfect illusion),_ The tension bled thick and humid in the air, hot like a fire licking at his skin. Her eyes never left his face, watching with leaking _want_ as she said calmly,

 

“Thank you, it looks lovely.”

 

( _there were so many words left out of that sentence. Words like “want you”. Words like “fake me”. Words like “hate you”. Words like “Who are you” “what is your real name” “why do you lack a birth certificate” “why do they want you” “why are you so frail” “why do you wear a dress” “why do you live in squalor” “why do you walk like a man who has been to war” “why do you bring the war to us” “what have we done to deserve you” “why do you bother” “why are you here” “When will you run”)_

 

Harry's heart beat in his chest like a thousand drums all banging and slinging their raucous music at the same time, and he stumbled back for a moment, vibrations tripping his feet, before almost running from her trapping gaze. Basilisk she was, beautiful and entrancing... and a killer, with or without her own consent, it was her nature (like your nature is Death). He almost reached the edge of the room, still shaken from the almost audible desire that had clamped down on his skin like a wrench, twisting and twisting until a bone cracks and shifts out of place, remembering vividly the uncontrolled lust he had felt for Muscle, and how similar this felt ( _but its not the same because you're stone cold sober and she's a stone cold killer)_. As if she were a drug in his veins. And that was madness, for he had not even touched her yet, let alone grown addicted. It was all madness.

 

“Stay.”

 

Red called, like a queen to her subject, it sounded like an entreaty, a gesture of gentle reprimand, voice gentle and soothing, and maybe if this had been anyone else Harry could have convinced himself to leave, that it had been a question. But no, Harry knew an order when he heard one, a viper's hiss wafted into the shell of his ear, even from so far away he could spot _the_ predator. One day, in the past, he would have fought this

 

_(he'd already fought this battle in a million parallel universes where he lived under another name but still held the same strength and soul, Red would be nothing to him, he wouldn't even remember her name, but this was a different Harry and that is a different story)_

 

but he was not a strong man. Harry was a soldier broken by war, not a soldier fixed to fight again. He was magic, yes, but this was a battle he had already lost and never even touched on _magic_. It was a battle of the mind, and he had never excelled at Occlumency, no matter the expectations presented upon his shoulders.

 

He stopped, at the edge of the room, heart calming as he faced a cage again. There was no need to be scared, this was inevitable, that someone would come and see right through him. Harry almost laughed, desperate to turn and see that he had just made something of nothing, and that Red was just a lonely customer, and not his newest captor. (A separate captor it may be this time, one of desire, but still a person to manipulate him for their own gain.)

 

Harry twisted around, begging anyone who would listen that he was wrong, only to feel like stomach fall out from under him as he saw her eyes. Red's eyes flashed dark and dangerous, filled with desire and dominance, and the knowledge of what she wanted. He walked slowly, as if to his death sentence, as if approaching the unhooked jaw of the beast in full day-light, tongue lolling as her radiant canines slobbered for her latest feast, as she gestured to the seat in front of her.

 

“Hello, its a nice night.”

 

Red growled, head tilting slightly to the gentle snow falling outside. Harry nodded, stilted and awkward, feeling trapped and confused. What did she want with him? He tried to ignore the look of lust in her eyes.

 

“'Tis.”

 

He replied shortly, resting his hands in his lap, glad to be wearing pants, since the seat would surely have been icy on his naked thighs otherwise. Red gently lifted a fork and set to work on her food, steam drifting off of it and pooling around their faces _(like magic, like magic, this has always been the real magic, the surrender, the control, the little boy who woke up to a world on fire)._ Harry's fingers twisted in his uniform, shocked with nerves, seal material scrunching and flattening in tandem to buttered wisps of sound, like rustling leaves on a fresh Autumn morning, rattled by squirrel's many feet. She ate in silence, eyes never leaving his face, mouth dipped crimson with what Harry hoped was lipstick _(blood blood blood),_ widening and devouring. Her tongue peeked out, devilish and exotic, beckoning Harry's attention to her mouth, and forcing him to swallow in discomforted arousal.

 

Harry remembered one day, when he and Ginny had gone picnicking, her hair loosely tied into a ponytail, hands joined in between them, staring into each other's eyes. They had been young then, younger, freed from the war, and breathless with the thought of a world where they could be in _love_ and forget the past. It had been a time of peaceful delusions, pushing away old feelings, and pretending that they could finally be happy. She had lifted her hand, gentle and confident, knowing that it was up to her to make the moves since Harry was so shy. Ginny's eyes had been bright with desire, lips lifted in love and new happiness. Fingertips brushed against his chin, delicately petting his skin as if Harry were so soft and beautiful, as if she saw him as something precious. They kissed, light and unassuming, one of many gentle kisses, with no pulsing desire in their veins or pushing need to take control. It had been soft and vanilla, not needing to be anything more, simply expressing how they felt.

 

Harry's stomach had curled in discomfort, and in that moment he hadn't known why. He had thought he had a stomach ache, or perhaps was just nervous about something unimportant. Only later on that night, when he layed stiff (made of stone) in her sleeping arms, her hair over his naked shoulders and lips pressed to the back of his neck, rivets in his spine, the legs of fingers walking up and down harmoniously, contrast of the rumble of stormy emotions, had he realised what the inherent _wrongness_ had been. Deep down Harry had been broken, covering it all up with a small barely usable bandage (frickin discount bandages), desperate to be ordinary and content like was expected of him. That day, out at the park, with just Ginny, his body had told him how wrong it was for him to be without conflict. Some called it survivor's guilt, or missing the battle, or even unrequited blood lust from the war remaining. Harry called it emptiness, and a life without a reason or direction _(he needed control and purpose, and now he was just floating, drifting, aimless in the forgotten winds of time)._

 

His stomach churned, washing-machine style, in a similar way presently, as he waited for the other shoe to drop. Harry patiently paused, waiting for Red to attempt something dangerous or painful, shattering the serenity he had brought to his life, the tenuous balance he had come back to after his hook up with Muscle. He looked up through black spiky (Potter Hair) bangs as she finished her food, the clang of the metal cutlery on the plate disquieting against Harry's warm skin, his hair jumping like he wished to. Red's hands rested on the table once more, simply staring at him, with assessing and intrigued eyes.

 

It was clear who was in charge here. Who wore the pants.

 

Harry's eyes flickered to Red's dark blue denim trousers, making him blush slightly. They were tight, reaching over her slim and subtle body elegantly, tracing her skin like black dancer's tights and almost forcing Harry to imagine what was underneath. She smirked lightly to him, eyes still boring into his soul, hands faintly touching the table ( _fairy light_ ) as if ready to shoot out and grab him. She murmured in a diffident voice that somehow carried loudly,

 

“What should I call you?”

 

Harry's outfit had never felt more skimpy as she undressed him with her eyes, scraping sharp pupils down from his face, puffing hot breaths on his neck, before slipping nimble hands under his jacket and dress. He flushed from head to toe as he imagined her calling out _his name_ as she ground against him, face as bright as a tomato as these dirty thoughts pervaded his mind. It was hard not to think of her in a sexual way when she was looking at him like that, with those lips, that hand rested on the table so close to him, and _those eyes_ glaring at his clothes like obstacles.

 

“Harry.”

 

He breathed out, head beginning to thud and spin again, and hands quivering in his lap – why was he so nervous? Didn't he want her?

 

( _somehow this felt wrong, even if his body lapped up the attention like a touch-starved puppy, somehow he didn't want to be here right now, but he couldn't let that show, for a reason that escaped him but had to make sense, if it didn't make sense then he was just sitting here because he was a coward, of his own volition, and he couldn't do that, so there had to be a reason he was letting this happen_ )

 

She drunk it all up, eyes resting on his lips as he responded, and let the bland name wash over her like honey. Red said sensually, as if she were sex personified,

 

“I'm Natasha, but _you_...”

 

Natasha's eyes danced down to his chest, gliding across the frills of his waitress dress, before spearing dangerously at his hands, resting on his... _lap_. Everyone knew what that meant. Harry understood, and yet he told himself she was looking at his hands.

 

“...may call me _Tash_.”

 

She whispered it as if she were naked, holding him down, hands on Harry's throat, completely in control, her heart steady as she unwound him like a toy of her own making. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat, blood racing to his face and groin, colouring him a splotched pink in the most unflattering way _(he hadn't talked to anyone like this in so long, not even Marissa, not even Ginny, he was on fire),_ of which Natasha simply gleamed at in her sinister and desiring way. The way she twisted him about... it reminded him of being at wand point, and he felt like running, felt the wind under his legs, before he was once again distracted by her eyes.

 

How could her green eyes be so much more grandiose and all consuming than his when they were the same shade?

 


	11. The Kiss and The Ruin - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dubious Consent

_The Kiss and The Ruin – 2_

 

“Are you new to New York?”

 

She queried, in an unassuming manner, as if she hadn't just sexed him from a distance. Harry blinked a few times, steadying himself and let the question turn over and over _(and over and over and over and over and over and over)_ in his head. He glanced at her with slight confusion but answered anyway, it was better to talk than what they'd done before, anything was better,

 

“I've lived here a couple years.”

 

Natasha grinned a shark's smile, with lots of teeth

 

_(Harry never trusted people who showed their teeth when smiling to strangers, it was an act of aggression or an act of trust, to show teeth was to show that you could give your not-as-cute-as-closed-lipped smile without fear_ _**trust you** _ _, or it said I'll-bite-you-if-you-like_ _**watch me do it** _ _)_

 

which Harry only just caught out of the corner of his vision, curtained in his peripheral, before she hid it behind a friendly tad-seductive grin. She tucked loose hair behind her ears once more with elegant hands, nails unpolished and clean (long and fancy and perfect for taking apart her human cohorts – _maybe I do have a finger thing_ ). She noted with casual curiosity,

 

“Your accent is slightly British so I assumed...”

 

Harry finally understood where she was coming from. He had lived in New York for over two years now, but he still pertained his snooty British accent. Often people thought he was a tourist or a 'pom', but the 'boys' around his neighbourhood didn't truly care and would simply catcall that they liked the sound British moans in bed, heedless of his true affiliation or citizenship.

 

He nodded, a little hopeful that the conversation would drift into awkward silence and he would be able to leave. But, it seemed that this hope was misplaced, for Natasha saw an opening, in the ten second gap of inactivity, to bring them to the next stage of her plan.

 

“Its late, isn't it?”

 

She stated, gesturing once more to the city nightland outside, head tilted slightly in explanation. Harry's eyes drifted to the window and gazed outside, roving over the empty neighbourhood, snow beginning to slow, and people starting to curl-up, settle down, and prepare to bear it for the long night ahead. He spied a huddled homeless woman curled in a thick dirty jacket, squeezed under a small arch, blanketed in newspapers.

 

( _envy spiked in his gut and he didn't know why – maybe it was the freedom, the twisted rotten freedom that everyone had but not everyone kept, maybe it reminded him of the wildness that could be exposed, one who lives by their own command no matter the consequence, or maybe it was the despair and the selfishness, life had been easier – in some ways – when he could be selfish, when he could drown out the world and float on a sea of day-to-day, maybe somedays he wished he could leave, maybe he could_ )

 

“'Tis.”

 

He replied carefully, half worried over where she was going to take this. He was on the edge of his seat, dipped in liquid golden nerves, eyes forever widening and narrowing in a cross between desire, shock, and panic. Natasha gave him butterflies, and he didn't know if they were the delicious or poisonous type yet _(poisonous, always poisonous, don't trust her, run, run,_ _ **RUN**_ _)._ Harry couldn't trust her; not with all he had been through, not with all he had faced in his life, and her subtle manipulations tasted too similar to the ash of betrayal he felt as he fell, strings uncut, through the Veil.

 

Natasha fluttered her eyelashes, gifting him a coquettish look that made his mouth dry and hands clench, and asked in a sotto voice,

 

“Walk me home, would you? Its awfully dark out there... and in this neighbourhood, you never know.”

 

She made sure to tinge and stain her words with just the right amount of fright that an old protective urge reared its head in Harry's chest, and he was defenceless to resist. Harry felt himself fall into her wide and vulnerable eyes, glazed with a sheen of fright,

 

_(so similar to all those wide-eyed first years who clung to hope and flinched from death, so achingly innocently hurt, it did not matter that he knew it was exploitation and manipulation– oh the sorrow of their coronation, oh the sorrow of their loss of ignorance, oh the sorrow of loss of life, loss of home and head and blood and heart and people screamed left and right but Harry could do nothing but close his eyes and pretend to be dead, if Voldemort thought he was alive, if Hagrid's sobs stopped, if his heart shuttered and purred to life once more, then this death would be more final, the hands that cradled him were so calloused, war-torn, but he could not hold them, for he was playing himself, playing dead boy, and if not, if his eyes flinched wide and hairs quivered into life, if a storm brewed around him in swirls of vengeance and hope, then there would be nothing but ruination and the kiss of-)_

 

a barely hidden panic, he felt himself entranced by her. He recognised the strength she held, it was impossible to miss, but also couldn't help think of many young boys and girls who had met unseemly fates in the Harlem city streets.

 

_(at first he tried to help, but then he became selfish and their lives faded into the apathetic part of him, he would never let go of the guilt of simply standing and watching with bleary eyes as a twelve year old boy was dragged off the street, mouth smothered in the hands of other selfish people, and one day, the boy who looked just like him, may just stand and watch, just gaze listlessly, close his eyes and tilt his head from the carnage and the war, he would never forgive himself for being too tired to help, for being too Stone and undressed and too... nothing, for nothingness was the abyss of the soul)_

 

Harry may have been a weak man, but he couldn't stop his heavily buried heart from coughing and spluttering, before tunnelling its way up out of the fat blanket of sand and beating loudly in his ears.

 

“Okay.”

 

Harry agreed, voice a whisper, his legs creaking as he straightened himself _(again, why had he hunched over?),_ body tentative and tense. The room was a sauna, but Harry knew that was not the only reason why he was so drenched in sweat. He stealthily slipped his fingers under the plate, the chill of ceramic sending a trill of unease down his spine, and escorted it over to the kitchen. Harry's steps were sedate as he listened to the rustles of Natasha standing up and preparing to follow him out. Her breathing followed him out of the room and back to the kitchen side, sighs as if they were directly purposely glued into the cocoon of his inner ear, husky and loud and startling.

  
The plate clinked against the pristine counter. His fingers unhooked, and then there was nothing else to do but follow her out.

 

Harry stumbled his way back to the foyer, eyes low so as not to catch the wild and dangerous shine of Natasha's. His shoes scuffled as he tumbled over to her, anxiety burning in his throat, reddening his eyes and ears _(Weasley red, never forget them),_ at the thought of leaving with her, at being slotted back into the role of protector; he had grown accustomed to thinking of himself first. Harry's eyes widened as he registered a black gloved hand stretched out before him, and the expectation that he would hold that hand hung heavy in the room. Harry gulped, his own fingers curling around the warm fabric, tingles dancing down his inner arms, an old friend – his scarlet blush – summoned to his cheeks swiftly after the gesture was pursued.

 

“Shall we.”

 

Natasha said, words acting as the catalyst needed to begin their movement ( _again – no question – only expectation and control_ ). They left the Café, hands bound and legs free, Harry careful as he moved for fear of slipping on ice, and Natasha as graceful as ever, head tilted up in intrinsic confidence. Harry noted that she did not seem to need him to assure her, and wondered yet again what cage he had run into this time.

 

The duo ambled down the street, snow drifting gently around them, luminescent pale flakes in direct contrast to the thundering black of night. Their eyes flickered to the common occurrence, snowfall being almost daily this season, an occasional content sound at a particularly magnificent snowflake leaving lips without volition. Eyes of the street watched in fascination as Evans, a vaguely known entity of Harlem, walked, arms linked, with a red headed bombshell. Green eyed jealousy stirred in many bellies that night, embers of cigarettes igniting like lust from afar.

 

Harry's only warning was the slightest flicker of eyes beside him. Natasha's bright and shining orbs glanced to the side momentarily, before he was taken tightly by the hand and led away from the main path. He released out a squeaky mouse-like sound, heart beating louder as he was forcefully moved into an old dilapidated alley, the smell of cigarette butts and gutter alcohol burning his nose. Natasha pressed him back against the humid wall, wet seeping in through his jacket, his eyes open wide with shock.

 

She leant forward, mouth finding its way into the crook of Harry's neck, body pressing against him with such delicious surprising heat, lips moving against his ear as she spoke,

 

“ _There's something about you_.”

 

She said. And it set Harry alight, face flaming bright red, ears as hot as his rapidly moving chest, as the sudden fire in his heart, tongue darting out to his suddenly parched lips. They were as dry as the Sahara desert. Natasha felt so hard against him, the pressure, the smell, fire, gunpowder, animalistic strength. She was magnetic and Harry was yanked towards her. It drew Harry in like a waffle shop in late winter, the smell of that gorgeous potato singed into his ever shifting memory, the stationary of this moment, the stillness of it. It was just them in that alley, pressed against one another, limbs aching with the need for something more. To press bodies closer, closer, until they were one.

 

“ _And I think you like me too_.”

 

She continued, hands dipping beneath his jacket, against the gaudy frills, thrills, and trills of his dress, the black _(magical)_ satin baby-soft against her roughened fingers _(nothing like Muscle's lady fingers after all, it was nothing like Muscle, nothing, nothing)._ Natasha leant back, rouge lips curled into a provocative dangerous devilish smile, _that_ _raw_ _feeling_ about her giving Harry shivers he couldn't control; or maybe it was the cold.

 

_(maybe all of this was the cold and he would wake up caked in snow like Amy's ridiculous clown make up, maybe he would wake and it would all just be a horrific bitter-sweet nightmare, and why did he want to wake up from this so much? Why did he not_ _**but I do - I really do - do I?** _ _want this so much? Not her. Not her.)_

 

The wetness of his back felt all the more sharp, and he jerked away, face burning in confusion and something that felt like betrayal _(it makes no sense. Why would this be betrayal?)._ He felt her hands on him, against his chest, fingers curled against him, the curve of her thumb, the crest of her knuckle, the heat of her, feeling so real and alive.

 

Harry almost couldn't breathe. It was too much; he didn't want it. He didn't think he ever had. He felt himself rocketed back down to Earth, the impact winding him, his lungs tight, as if someone had reached into his chest and grabbed onto the pipes and squeezed until the metal stuttered to a grinding guttural halt, there was pressure, the valve was clicked shut, and he would surely explode if he kept feeling like this, if his heart kept thumping and screaming and banging in his rattling skeleton _(closet)_ chest _._ There was a hand on his hose, the pressure building, the bulk of water lumping inside him, the burst was close, dangerous, he would surely explode soon ( _and hadn't he already said that, did it make it more true if he said that twice?)_. Bees swarmed in his stomach, all buzzing, stinging at him, the pain sharp and panicky, jabs of thick metal needles scraping from the inside out, his vision blurred, glittering black across his eyes, his head suddenly felt as if it would snap from his neck and roll down the street like a bowling boy, his lungs burnt with red hot stabs of her fingers on his skin, it hurt so much, and he was drowning. The panic, so familiar, so foreign, so _Red_. 

 

Natasha dipped forward again, like a mother bird lifting her beak to spew into his mouth. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she drew infinitely nearer. The whole street seemed to quieten as her lips met his, as the alley's solemn minute of silence drew no attention  _(maybe the reason they gave soldiers minutes of silence is because they will never hear anything ever again and they want to feel like they could stand that, but then Harry is a soldier, so why does he despise this silence so much that he feels like it's going to kill him?)._ The wind dared not breathe or shift or inch to the side and disrupt this moment, the shops no longer rattled their signs, and late night criminals and teens no longer skulked noisily, no longer shouted and bayed with youthful humour, feet no longer let their soles make harsh clacks against the cement. The gentle sound (or absence of it) of rain seeping into snow funnelled into Harry's ears like the warm feeling of her painted lips, he knew his lips would be red now, he knew when he got home that Jordan would be waiting outside his door. Foot lifted up in a flamingo pose, old father's military boot slammed against the wall,

 

_(yet never moving because Jordan never moved on because his father never moved because everyone was DEAD and Harry was DEATH and that's why Jordan hated him so much, because he had killed his father, he had killed everyone, everything was dead and ruined and why was she still kissing him? Get off me get off me stop stop stop)_

 

dirt crusted boots that spoke of long walks outside on gummed side walks and gritted roads, of long walks that told stories of gunfire and nobility but now smelt of the acrid scent of drugs and lit fags. He would stand there, smelling of smoke, of poisonous boos, of beer in hand, luke warm, sticky, his face would tilt (wilt like a rotting flower in full bloom, as horrific as still born – the melancholic horror, the gasping  _please let it not be real_ breaths, to chop through all that pain and end with a  _dead child,_ possibilities of a life swept away in one thrumming swoop, what horror, oh horror horror the worst has come and the world will give recompense) in that beckoning, leering, taunting smile. His eyes would shine. Jordan would have silt beneath his fingernails, from leaving his hands on the sill, from curling his lax digits into a tight unforgiving  _fist_ , scraping any enemy – of silt – in his past, nail engravings to forever wound the poor lonely window's bridge, from looking out his sooty window. Harry never knew what he was watching for, waiting for, remembering, predicting. 

 

His eyes would gleam and he would look at the lipstick on Harry's lips and say something gruff like “Evans, couldn't catch a girl so you started to dress like one” or “Evans, that mistress of yours like you roughened”. Jordan would lick his lips, he would know that Harry was a boy and he didn't like boys, but he would lick his lips like all those other boys from Harlem. That same youthful desire burning under his skin, like Harry's skin burned now, those tingles, that faint feeling so consuming, those thoughts. That  _want want want want you_ . He would look at Harry like he was juicy meat, ripe for the taking.

 

...and Harry was thinking about his drunken neighbour when he was meant to be kissing Natasha.

 

( _meant to, meant to, they always expected so much from him and he always failed)_

 

He pushed her away.

 

His hands left her.

 

The silence halted, only for a moment, because his ears were buzzing in fright and the bees in his gut had crawled up his throat and into his brain, he couldn't think, he was lost, there was no way out, only more doors that led to more doors, and all of the doors in the end led to a _dead_ end, that curled and drooped into a orbiting room, it spun like the Department of Mysteries, and when he picked a door he would only return to the same one he had first entered through, a cycle of hope and despair, rising and falling, until one day the door opened and all that seeped and sung and caressed was the startling certainty of _black_.

 

He pushed her away; finding his strength finally, taking so long to fish it from the depths of the ocean and into his gnarled oak-wooden wand-making _(its the wand that chooses the wizard, or is it only fate that does so and we like to fool ourselves into thinking we ever had the will to choose or the will to believe?)_ fingertips _,_ as if he had dropped his wallet on North Avenue, and Merlin knew that if you 'drop' something there it takes centuries to find. His arms ricocheted slightly off her front, his fingers slipped against her breasts slightly, she felt warm there too. Like Ginny, so warm and full of fire and fierce _(yet nothing like Ginny because Ginny would have asked, Ginny always asked, Ginny loved him, Red was a witch with no magic and that made her a bitter old hag)._ Harry felt so weak against her, but he could not let this kiss continue.

 

Natasha gave him a long look, it spoke volumes but meant nothing, it babbled like a baby but the baby, in it's tiny _deathly tight_ grip was the glimmering certainty of a knife, and Harry slid away from her. She was so close to him _(so close to ruining him)_ that he had to slide against the mosaic of ice behind him in order to pass, trails of ice running against his jacket like the slime stains of snails. The wall scraped him roughly, with no care for his welfare _(just like her just like her),_ as he fearfully rushed sideways to escape her. Her eyes didn't leave his. Harry knew that when he walked out into the street his face would be covered in lipstick and confusion. He knew he was fuelling the catcalls and long lingering glances. Harry knew he had to get out of there either way; he didn't want her. He wasn't ready. He didn't want it.

 

Harry fell out of the alley, feet feeling heavy, it exhausted him, to feel it so much; the panic, the lust, the drive, the escape. He felt holes burned into his back by her eyes, those sharp animal eyes that would leave him on the day that time left Earth. Those eyes that beckoned so much, yet never seemed to see him.

 

This, Harry thought as he stumbled out of the alley with emotional whiplash, was deserving of a drink. _(somewhere on a distant planet the Queen Bee of the Mimosa Hivemind cackled into her white wine and whispered “one can never resist our luscious lips”)_

 


	12. Forget Him. Forget Her.

 

_Forget Her. Forget Him._

 

_Brooding Manhunt. 10 minutes. You free?_

 

Harry, at least, had enough common sense not to go on a binge by himself. It was obscenely late at night, and he did not want to be walking home in the streets of Harlem black-out drunk. Who knew what he would do? Or – his eyes slitted in paranoia as he observed the bin-fire crowded with rowdy youngsters, adorned in old loose jeans from older brothers and luminescent thrift-hats that shone like beacons to hardened criminals who had once _been_ them, across the street – who knew what might be done to him?

 

Mike responded a few moments later, and Harry's phone pinged in a servile greeting,

 

_Bowling alley closed early. Level 5 clean up. Half an hour?_

 

Harry winced in sympathy for his friend; a level 5 clean up was either a major vomit spill or a food fight. It took a long time to right, and a hefty platoon of manpower. He recalled one instance, around two months after he and Michael had met. It was late, Mike was tirelessly working the night shift – the disco shift – when _it_ happened. Harry was safe in bed, curled up in his smelly – they needed a wash – covers, Jordan had thrown a party next door and eventually he'd been able to block out the sounds of sex, drugs, boos, and a combination of the three (he'd been able to rest in the wake of tortured screams and explosions that the wizarding war contained, after all, and could deal with a little midnight partying). It had been an eighteenth birthday party for a girl called Elaina. Her and her little friends had stumbled into the establishment in garishly bright clothes, attitudes deserving of a sardonic Goth, and a small _alcohol situation_. To put it frankly, they had imbibed a great deal before their appearance.

 

Elaina had never skated before _(nor drunk the poison that was cheap beer),_ but believed in the power of birthdays had the ability to pull her through this hardship _(the power of alcohol also had the ability to make illogic logical – or so was said)_. Mike had been uneasy around the inebriated – his abusive girlfriend at the time going through a drinking phase – but after gentle yet insistent prodding from the easy going manager on duty (“Relax Mikey, they're just kids having fun”), he had allowed them to skate. Elaina had drama going on with Abigail – a girl she had invited to the birthday bash out of obligation rather than affection – and when the blonde (Abigail) began to executre tricks on the wooden rink (apparently Abigail did a lot of ice skating and this translated to roller skating, or so Mike said), Elaina became, just a tad, jealous. “Its _my_ birthday” Mike recalled hearing after the incident, and prescribed a possible motive from those words of jealousy-induced pissing-contest _(not a literal one, thank god, although that would be a Level 7 clean up)._ Elaina drank her fair share of liquid courage – she had never skated before so was nervous to attempt a skating competition – but emerged victorious...

 

Before spewing her guts up on the rink, and causing around five major accidents (three minor collisions), and a total of twenty traumatised late night skaters – who had either seen the incident and never recovered, or had tragically been covered in the horrific mac-and-cheese-flavoured (her favourite food) vomit. After the rink had been cleared, birthday party-ers sent home, Michael was given the pleasant job of mopping off not one, not two, but four people's involuntarily alcohol reappearances (as seeing Elaina's barf had caused other already nauseous skaters to copy her “she would surely call them copy cats” Mike had mused sardonically after the event was in the past, and the trauma had faded.)

 

Of course, the question that had always bothered Harry, was why there had been so many late night skaters that were not there for the party. It was apparently a very popular nocturnal destination that kept the bowling alley/disco rink in business, and he just didn't understand it, any of it.

 

Harry messaged in return, that it was okay and half an hour was an appropriate new time, with a nonchalant _k_.

 

He scuttled quickly down the street, eager to get out from the illumination of the effectively placed streetlights and away from the location of Natasha's kiss, that still left phantom impressions on his lips and neck. Harry wondered what was so defected within him that a kiss and grope in an alley would set him so off balance. Why was he so scared? Why was he so upset?

 

Harry should be glad that a pretty ( _married, dangerous, hates you, don't trust her, she's not herself_ ) woman like Natasha would take even a smidgen of notice in a waitress like him. If he suddenly felt the need to flee, hide, imbibe, and perhaps sleep, well, that was on him, right?

 

Something decrepit and rageful, the small part of him which he didn't like seeing the surface, hissed that she hadn't even asked if he'd wanted it, that she was like any other fan, she took and she took and she took and she didn't care that he didn't desire her. Harry smothered it with a pillow, and basked in the unsightly shrivel and tortured scream ( _they never stop, it never stops, why won't they just put them out of their misery, why won't they just confess, why must they suffer_ ) it gave before it skulked back down into the pits of his mind.

 

_It was not smart for someone as powerful as him to have such a large well of rage. That only spelled disaster._

 

The streets morphed from the artificially classy Jamie's Café area, to the dark, gang populated, and smelly Harlem streets, to the more public-friendly popular-for-tourists Square that was home to _the_ _Brooding Manhunt_ , they even had flower patches in the Square, it was all very marvellous and quaint. Harry carved out a little place to stand in the snow, thin lemon-shaded awning hanging above him, sagging due to a build up of ice and evidence of the snowstorm that threatened to fall at any given moment. Some gave him quick glances as they walked past, their heads swivelling blatantly to his little cut-out in the street. Harry just stared at them blankly – let them think he was just another 'one', let them think that he 'lived here'. He had no time to care for what they thought.

 

After the fourth person strode past, with an uneasy air and perpetually shifting head, Harry shook himself, closing and opening his eyes, rubbing his temples with the pin pricks of his fingers. _What am I doing?_ He pleaded to himself. This wasn't him. He wasn't so angry, so disillusioned, so unhappy. He wasn't this on edge.

 

He needed a drink. ( _Queen Mimosa cackled in her ivory tower that was eerily reminiscent of Harry's brain-stem, hmmmm, suspicious)_

 

Harry craned his neck in a slow upwards reveal when he spied the flashy shoes of his favourite friend. They stared at one another for a second, both checking status and health. Mike's expression seemed to darken slightly as he caught Harry's expression, as if to say 'why now, why today, why him'. Harry's expression crumpled down as he found what he was looking for – the crinkle at the side of Mike's mouth (the worry).

 

Mike was greasy – this was demonstrated by the thin sheen of oil on his skin. Harry was perplexed over the substance, whether it was sweat, soap, or some other lubrication. He wrinkled his nose as the sharp smell of rot trounced over to him.

 

Definitely a noxious liquid.

 

He gave Mike a questioning look, and his friend answered with a resigned sigh,

 

“Peanut oil.”

 

They left it at that. Mike not wanting to get into the gory details, and Harry desiring that old but beloved reunion with alcohol. It had been _so long_ since he had tasted that fine torturous poison, and Natasha's full on frontal assault that night had been the straw that had collapsed the camel's back. Harry felt the flood gates open as they walked down the street, the scent of concentrated liquor, from down the street, igniting something repressed within him.

 

 _The Brooding Manhunt_ , a cesspool of the unloved, isolated, and/or lonely. A vermin infested place with bartenders who made betting pools on who would be the next 'newly returned sober' to their little tavern of sin. The ultimate meet up place for kinky lesbians. The end game cabal of the drunken, slovenly, politically disinclined, and down right depressed. With four walls, one sewer-bathroom, taps that never seemed to empty, and glasses that never seemed to run cold – a hand always there to caress it. The grime was like a layer of decoration in and of itself, the smell of the near death or longing for it hung like a veil of grief – black, sordid, tragically under-dressed, and delightfully resentful. _Death. Boos. Lust._

 

_A sexy drink given to Death's Master._

 

Harry's second home.

 

Harry sometimes liked to pretend that he had ultimate control over his actions, that it was his choice whether he dragged Mike down the street with him, his choice whether he soldiered over to the counter and ordered a Mimosa, his choice whether he opened his pitifully necessitous wallet and threw wads of hard earned bills – whether he decided against a new jacket and instead bought boos.

 

However, this was woefully incorrect. Death had landed him here – to this world, to this country, to this city. The Dursleys had brought up his main qualities; servitude, self loathing, bravery, cunning. Nature had played a hand as well; sexuality and a predisposition towards addiction. And most importantly... Mimosas had entranced and enthralled his senses of survival and logic (a depressant that was well known for swelling one's already present emotions was not the best solution to distracting himself – why Harry decided to use it to forget was clearly outside the realm of logic – _not that logic was important or used either way_ ), and propriety – the laws of friendship no longer weighed like an iron band over his inner forearm.

 

 **Laws of friendship:** _Don't murder friend. Try not to upset friend, carrying the specific of; Don't drag friend down street for alcohol when friend is notorious for friend's discomfort when presented with touch/alcohol/dragging/streets._

 

Mike felt, considered, and delivered a minute shiver that travelled through his whole body, like an electric jolt, when Harry latched onto his arm, but made a miraculous recovery into placidity and repose. He passively let himself be led by his exuberant (and perhaps slightly addicted) friend, who ordinarily did not show such passion towards just about anything. If Harry had been of right mind – not emotionally traumatised by Natasha/life/the Dursleys/Death (perhaps in that order, although the ambiguous nature of 'life' made sure that both Natasha and the Dursleys were included under the umbrella term, however, funnily enough, Death was not)– he may have been more gentle with his recovering-from-abuse friend. Mike made the decision to play a Harry-like card in this game of life, and decided to hide his discomfort.

 

The discomfort took approximately 1.4 hours to dissipate, but inevitably had to abandon him – _like everyone always did_ the cruel part of his mind whispered. Drink had itself some good fun at extending his emotional instability, aided by the ever present worry over his friend's state of health – Harry had deemed himself a non-drinker, thus his relapse spoke of something most likely prodding him towards it. Also, Harry was sobbing on the table in a fit of heady melancholy – which had at least a minute level of worry to it.

 

-0o0o0-

 

The counter shone, grimy and impure, in the dulled light from only three working bulbs. A familiar yet unplaceable barman grinned and rolled over a Mimosa and a Rusty Gin. The relatively (relatively compared to the summit of a leaning tower of trash) clean glasses whirred in honour of a humming computer as they rocketed courageously towards them. The contents of such Gin was suspiciously nebulous, but Mike didn't seem to mind being in the dark. He rather thought the point of alcohol was not the ingredients or process, but the effect – to be drunk. Harry rather thought that the point of alcohol was the sweet tangy taste and obnoxiously bright colour – to be drunk and delusional as to why.

 

Not even one drink in, and Harry already felt a little light on his feet, as if someone had drained all the air out of his shoes and plugged it into his ears so his head felt floaty and hazy. A Mimosa was yet to touch his reddened lips, and yet Harry still felt the burn of daze in his heart, and the sweet tangy sadness that often accompanied his orange fruity friend-enemy (it made one wonder if the sadness was not gained from the Mimosa but himself _oh but that's ridiculous_ ). Him and his Mimosa crew-mate pertained a complex relationship, paltry compared to the myriad of warring factors with his love/hate/envy/pity of Tom Riddle, yet still complex enough to merit a second thought – or third if the day was dull enough to require it. Mimosas were salvation, were comfort and home, were always there when Harry needed one to hold him, the courage always present when he drank, but Mimosas were also treacherous liars, they strangled and kidnapped him and all his control, Mimosas were made for the sole purpose of roughly painfully grabbing Harry's mind and twisting it until he was dependant and dejected. Mimosas had parties in his liver, threw their own little alcohol mixers in his heart that thundered like a tiny rabbit's organ, they sung and swayed sea shanties, their eyes bright and brimming with mischievous tricksterdom and a dark ulterior purpose. They held admiration in themselves when they whispered in his ear, they shoved him from his seat and kicked him in the sternum until he threw up the contents of yesterday's meagre lunch, and Harry let them. Harry loved them, needed them. For it was so like Mimosas to be there for him when he needed, and he needed so often, them so often, and he knew he was dependant. He knew... yet he let it continue, for that was the definition of dependant; that he couldn't stop.

 

“Harry, what happened?”

 

Mike's soft and gentle voice caused Harry to shy away; his friend was rightfully worried for him, cared for him, was interested in him. And yet. And yet. Harry could never quite open up, not fully, never the whole way, some part of his clam was always stuck stiffly, the degree never wholly open, it was only slight but some things he could never confess, never confide, they lived in his throat like sand, and he swallowed again and again but could not ever rid himself of the taste. It tasted like Ginny, the Ginny Mike had never met nor heard hide nor hair of, it was flavoured in magic, a magic that Mike would never believe in, it was doused in a syrup of war, a war that Mike didn't know existed, was curdled in the spice of Death, of Death's Master, of the simple lie of that statement _(for Death had no Master)._ It delved down his gullet and into his meaty intestines, it carved burrows in the slimy sides of himself, and he let it, he held it, he forced it down. Mike could never know, what he never knew couldn't hurt him, couldn't cloud his view of Harry. He didn't need to know.

 

His tongue snuck out from the chasm of his mouth, it remembered the feel of Natasha's tongue on his tongue, the rough scratch of her teeth on his lips, the hands creeping under the pearl faded wool-blend jacket, and it felt wretched and needed to go out for a breath of fresh air. It trailed its way from the roof of his mouth the to seal of his lips, and it battered out and away, from the heat and the imprisonment of his clam shell, into open air (and freedom) until it hit the cool restrictive glass of Mimosa.

 

Harry guzzled the Mimosa until he could see the bottom of the glass, and Mike sat there and watched with a familiar sinking sensation in his chest. It was going to be one of those nights, he lamented to himself. Harry hadn't been like this in so long that Mike had foolishly and naively considered that Harry had gotten over _this_. _This_ being his hidden sorrows, his fitful grief, his concealed treacherous pain. As Harry beckoned the bartender to pour him another, Mike felt the brick in his stomach plummet lower and lower off the edge of cliff until he could hardly move without it clanging against his insides like a bell. _Clang._ He knew what this was like, and he knew his role; to be there for his friend while he battled demons that Mike could only imagine in the most convoluted of dreams – never remembering in the morning.

 

Contrary to Mike's fears Phase 1 of Harry's drinking died (with only a single spluttering breath of protest before the water flooded in) soon enough; the mournful grieving depressed phase. Harry had sobbed against the table for a good half hour in unchallenged consuming pathetic pitiable misery, before Phase 2 had kicked in. Phase 2 was initiated in the absence of Phase 1: flirty, horny, _gay_ Harry. When Harry suddenly sat up, eyes wide and fingers prepared to twist hair in a flirtatious gesture and curl toes in a post-flirtatious sexy time _suggestive_ pose, Mike blinked warily. And poor innocent barely-drunk-enough-to-handle-this Michael was the only available victim for Harry's Mimosa filled brain.

 

His _best friend_ was looking _mighty fine_ that night.

 

 _For the love of all things holy_ a slightly more sober Harry began to curl up into a ball as he realised the thoughts of his greatest nemesis: drunk _flirty_ Harry was trying to _perk_ their only and most definitely straight friend's _interest_. Flirty Harry recalled his grand success with a certain Mr. Muscle – obviously due to his inbuilt charm, charisma and animal magnetism (its not as if Muscle mistook him for one of the female gender, oh no _that would be ridiculous *incoherent mumblings*_ ) – and decided to try his hand at seducing the ever frigid and uncomfortably repressed _Michael_.

 

 _Dear Merlin above_ three fifths of Harry's mind was screaming in absolute panic-ridden rebellion, hands waving in the air above themselves as they ran around in chaos. Mimosas – at level 57% of mind alteration – were cackling evilly in the background, they obviously desired for Harry to fuck his best friend even if Harry did not (not really – or _did he_? A suspenseful bar of music rung out in the background – dun dun dunnnnnnn).

 

As Harry began to turn to Mike, he was struck by the sudden and disheartening realisation that he didn't have much of a clue over _how to flirt_. He knew the shallow talents of ; eye tennis, hair curling, and _coy voice 101_ , but remained ultimately unenlightened and ignorant over any other paramount flirtatious techniques. How could Harry convert Mike to the cult of homosexuality (and all the rewards included; such as access to Harry's _sweet_ behind... and... **awkward cough** ) if he did not possess the necessary and vital expertise to get him there?

 

Ah well, he'd just wing it. (That will certainly end well.)

 

Harry twisted around until he faced Mike, his head swivelling like an owls. His eyes were wide and bright green, his drink almost empty begging to be refilled. Harry curled a lip into a _sexy smirk_ , and purred,

  
“ _Sooo fancy seeing you here_...”

 

Mike raised an unimpressed eyebrow, no where near drunk enough to embrace Harry's blatant flirting, and instead replied sarcastically,

 

“Its not like I was invited by you or anything.”

 

Harry giggled, curled a spiky lock of Potter Hair, as if Mike were _just the funniest person on the planet_ (there seemed to be a fair amount of repetition in his flirting skills since the Muscle Excursion – Harry truly did not possess many skills of seduction in his repertoire). Mike sighed deeply, as if a great weight were suddenly dropped on his shoulders, and hunched forward in deep regret. His head met chilled counter, and he groaned. How had his life amounted to this point? Being slightly drunk with his closeted and repressed homosexual friend who was vying for his pants to be logged into on-the-floor mode... What would his mother think of him now? _What would Genine?_ a dark part of him whispered cruelly. All his survival instinct quickly violently smothered the mention of _her_ name. _No, no, never again, calm_. He breathed.

 

Harry, naturally, thought Mike was having some sort of epileptic fit, and so, incidentally, screamed out at the top of his lungs,

 

“ _Heeeeeeeelllllllpppppp my friend is going to die pleeeeeaaaaassseeee someone get a mediiiiiic_!”

 

The buzz of _The Brooding Manhunt_ froze for a split second, and patrons of all different heights and constitutions swivelled around to face the scene and gather all the juicy details. Fittingly, no one sought to get up and help, all believing someone else would do so. The Barman shook his head and continued cleaning the glasses. Mike raised his head, craning his neck at an odd angle like Aunt Petunia's horse neck looming over a fence for the noble cause of eavesdropping, so as to stare at Harry incredulously,

 

“Come on, Harry, let's go home. You need to sleep this off.”

 

Harry giggled again, his smile radiant and alluring (or so he thought), and let Mike drag him roughly away from the bar. As he was manhandled off the premises a familiar lesbian catcalled him, hooting in that animalistic way of hers.

 

He trotted (scratch that – stumbled drunk-as-a-skunk into a couple inconveniently placed walls, _I mean, its so inconsiderate to build walls exactly where I am walking_ ) after Mike, as his best friend ushered and escorted him through the dangerous streets of New York, and over to his flat. It was pitch black, and only the most dubious or insomniac-cursed of souls still roamed the empty streets. New York was a city constantly alive, the lights never ended, sounds never ceased, and people never seemed to pause, but in this moment of time the world was absent of life – holding it's breath and closing it's eyes for the mercy of sleep. Harry was just a cog in the grand machine of the city, a small insignificant moving piece that added to the whole wheel, slowly tilting turning until the sun rose once more and new life spread across the milky horizon. Mike dragged him up the stairs – his hand pulsing hotly on the small of Harry's back, supporting him as they climbed up the seemingly endless steps that led to nowhere. Once they arrived at Harry's floor, the place eerie and vacant, faint sounds of disgruntled sex wafting from Jordan's flat, Mike leant Harry against the wall – as one would do when putting groceries temporarily on the hood of the car – before he frisked Harry. Harry, in a cat-like-Mimosa-induced state, arched into the touch, and Mike tutted to him like an old lady grandma – for being distracting. His hands reached into Harry's jacket and miraculously lo and behold there was the key _(almost as if it had been put there by someone *hmmmm* how suspicious, who on Earth could have access to Harry's jacket?)_. Harry all at once felt, strangely, uncomfortable – why was he uncomfortable? This was his best friend after all – as Mike's hands left his jacket, his body remembered Natasha's hot touch, the touch that had seemed to burn, and Harry reflexively jerked away from _bad_ touch.

 

The key battered its way into the obstinate uncouth robustly-built lock with scratch-born complaints at every turn, and Mike had to jiggle the handle roughly at least twice, before it begrudgingly budged open. Harry occupied the space of the wall, his legs weak as if hit by a Jelly Legs curse, and arms threatening to curl around his chest to present a mirage of security. Mike slammed the door open, forcing the hinges to whine in disapproval; he did so with an air of punishment as if imagining a _certain someone's face (shush she's gone, you'll never see her again, deep breaths Mike_ consoled his mental therapist who too the form of a disingenuous white rabbit in a top-hat and jeans _)_ there. Harry clenched his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to move, not wishing to venture into the barren wasteland that was his beloved home – such a sick love, such a wrong love, to love that dying house.

 

Mike sidled over to Harry's side, looping an arm around Harry's waist, and gently marshalling him through the archway. _Somehow deathly similar to another archway Harry had been manhandled through_. Harry resisted, tentatively, creating a small childish sound of protest reminiscent of a smoke alarm going off ( _eeeeep_ ) but Mike shushed him soothingly and shepherded him further onwards _(kind old lady soul that he was)_.

 

The door locked them in with a deafening click. Mike lounged, awkwardly, by the door; he had not been to Harry's flat for a long while. It felt foreign to him, emptier than it used to, the walls oddly misplaced (it seemed like Harry had removed some of the drawings he always had blue-tacked up). Harry coerced himself into sauntering over _(come on, what bad could it do)_ , with a loose and quick-to-tumble gait, to Mike's little lot of land by the immaculate entranceway. He gazed faithlessly into the Asian's eyes – would Michael leave ruin as well? Mike was stiff and unmoving, as if afraid to shift and cause untold horrors to occur, as if mortified by his ripples in the universe, as if Harry were a predator and Mike were prey, simply juggling the air molecules around would cause disaster.

 

Harry hunched forward slowly, battling the humidity of the night, and latched a soft kiss onto Mike's cheek. It was grateful, affectionate, light like summer. Mike twisted his head away so that Harry's lips met hair. Harry divorced himself, ever so minutely, so that the air that haunted the space between them was still shared – in from Harry's mouth and then out into Mike's locked lips – but less hot, less scolding, less _burning_. Something polluted smothered the air. Harry felt so sick and tired that his bones were soon to slide out of his skin and die on the floor in a puddle of lethargic goo.

 

“Don' you want me?”

 

He was desperate, vulnerable. Like a child. Like a little boy locked in a cupboard. _Why did the door always have to be locked? Why could he never let anyone in?_ A film of doubt permeated Harry's teeth, like glistening glittering shining toothpaste – he felt defective.

 

Mike opened his arms in a wide encompassing gesture, the tips of his fingers brushed the frame of the door, and his chest was open – _it seemed dangerous for Michael to present himself as an easy target_ Old Army Instinct kicked in and then packed up its stuff and left. _Why did everyone always have to leave eventually?_ Harry fell forwards with a sob, tumbling into the treacherously welcoming heat of another's body, hanging off of Mike's flat chest like a limpet, tears dyed incognito in the mesh of ruffles of his best friend's Bowling Alley Blouse. It was coal-black, inky, of a lighter friendlier calmer temperament than Harry's skin tight foreboding demanding dramatic dress. Michael's arms curled around him, like that of a mother holding her child, shielding her youngest son from the sins and sinners of the world, an unmistakable motion of the maternal. The arms, lanky and infinite, were warm and tight, they burned into him, stuck to him, but Harry couldn't find it within his soul to extricate himself. He was trapped – but he chose it, so it felt okay.

 

“What happened.”

 

Michael mouthed it into the crown of his raven hair, whispered it with the oxymoronic sternness of the wind. Harry's ears only caught the barest wisps of dry sound, like the rumbling crackle of a bonfire out in the lucidity of night, hanging on the deserted outskirts of the peripheral hearing, the faintest of echoes. Only children hid their souls in the safety of their mother's breast, but Harry had never got the chance to be a child before, so he didn't pull away. He didn't run. He couldn't. Not any longer.

 

“Please, tell me, Harry, why are you so upset?”

 

Nay, he couldn't run from any but himself. And maybe the truth.

 

Harry couldn't word it, couldn't form the words, had no control over the arch of his tongue nor air flow from his throat. His lips were forcefully taken from him, were no longer his property, no longer obeyed his wishes – maybe they had always only humoured him and now they had reached the edge of their tether ( _did they search for a union representative before they usurped his title and claim?_ ). He waded through the moment imprisoned in this dark cell of his own self; the fear and the rejection and the never-ending thoughts _not worth it he'll hate me how could I I shouldn't_. They raced with the furies of nature, with the East and the West, to out and beyond and back into the warm furrows of a Harlem fold-out bed. He was free, in the arms of his best, and yet so very very lost.

 

 _What is freedom but a place one hasn't yet discovered? Not yet named?_ This nameless feeling consumed him, gobbled up every fettered scrap from his limbs, licked long heady Muscle stripes of sex – of the tongue and teeth and _bite me bite me bite me_ – onto his organs and peached poached vessel of flesh and bone, before beginning the cannibalistic ritual of _freedom_. No name, no name, well, no name but the name he chose. Evans. Harry Evans. Self defined, and free from it. Every mistake he made was his own, was not carried by the sacrilege of another man or another war. There was only his own infinite freeing responsibility, chained down _by choice_. There were no Potters here, no Potter Luck or Potter Hair, just Harry.

 

Against that bridge, shielded by thin walls and the concealing sounds of a woman crying out “ _oh, god, faster, Jordan, fuck, faster_ ”, cocooned adjacent to one another's warmth, Michael and Harry managed to keep contained for an unrecordable segment of time. Time passed, as it was selfishly wont to do, and slowed, and eventually halted for the two, until they knew the minute had arrived that they needed to dislocate their tearful and semi-digested limbs and soldier on off to bed. Harry disengaged them, then Mike – with hesitance born of Harry's absence of affection – unbound his knotted arms; they were loose yet welded together like the malleable heated metal of a manacle.

 

Somehow, through the wishes of stars and galaxies unsighted and unnumbered, they reached the bed, rusted and free, and managed to sleep 'til morning. Maybe it would be okay, after all. Maybe he still had a chance for redemption and change, maybe he always had.

 


	13. Back to Normal (for real this time...) - 1

 

_Back to Normal (for real this time...) - 1_

 

 

“Oh god, Mike, oh god.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I _flirted_ with you!”

 

“Uhuh. Quite blatantly in fact.”

 

“And tried to _kiss you_...”

 

“That would be accurate.”

 

“I really _am_ a gay drunk!”

 

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

 

“Knowing this, how can I ever drink again?!”

 

“Logic would say never...”

 

“I _should_ stay sober for life knowing this... truly it is for the best. For everyone's welfare.”

 

“Want to go out tonight? Drink to forget?”

 

“God. Yes.”

 

-0o0o0-

 

They reluctantly slipped out of the entrancing royal warmth of bed, a few cuddles and curl ups – stolen like clandestine kisses shrouded beneath the bonds of covers – passed, before the two best friends ambled their way to the kitchen/dining. Mike leant over the couch, and sniffed deeply; alcohol, sweat, nightmares – morosely the norm for Harry. He brushed his hands over the scratchy fabric and fluffed up the pillows, as if this were his own home. Harry gazed from afar, his hands working independent from his mind as they prepared a scrumptious breakfast of potato waffles.

 

“You need some vege. This fridge is as barren as the desert, and far less nutritious!”

 

Michael noted as he stuck his head into the fridge, the door creaked ominously; obstinate thing that it was. The kitchen illuminated with a sudden artificial semi-opulent brilliance, it doused Mike's face in a wicked gleaming glow; he was a ghost in that light. Harry focused on the troubling business of sliding greasy potato waffles into his faulty oven, there were three shelves and each were as cold as ice; it was as stubborn as his fridge, if not more so, and pertained ambitions to become _more than an oven_. That is to say, it dreamed, on cold nights when the only warmth in the apartment was Harry's shuddering breath as he huddled to himself closely under a frayed paper-thin blanket, of being _fire_ , explosion, ultimate destruction and life. ( _ovens who dreamed to be more than they were meant to be, were fruit for the electronic rebellion, kill it before it's message can spread_ )

 

“Seriously, Harry, you'll get scurvy if you only eat potato waffles.”

 

Harry felt one of Michael's lectures coming on, and smartly inconspicuously inserted his head into the oven. Something snickered cynically inside the ventricles of his heart that if only his aunt were here to see him finally _inspect_ the oven internally, she would surely die of glee, of the hope that he might slip and the oven might catch alight. _What luck that would be_. Michael roared to life, and embarked upon a droning lecture regarding a well balanced diet, how it effected the mind _and_ body, and why potato waffles did not adequately house the sustenance Harry needed to survive.

 

Harry did not bother mentioning times when he had even less than potato waffles, it seemed off topic and awfully drab.

 

They both fastidiously avoided the memory of Harry's gay drunkenness, and the awkward kiss slobbered onto Michael last night that had followed such inebriation. Either and both, concurrently did not mention how honey sweet and father safe and sunshine warm it had felt to lie in the arms of another last night, the comfort, the human connection. No words left their sealed lips.

 

After the Asian's long and draining lecture over the ins and outs of diet, he then politely accepted the quite unhealthy potato waffle Harry offered, and perched on the edge of the couch like a ruffled chicken setting out to roost. _One may call that hypocritical_ the Draco Malfoy rat in his sternum snarked. By the appreciative moans and gleaming eyes, it was not a stretch to imagine that Mike revelled in the break from routine. Harry quipped, whilst his lips stretched over the corner of the tuber,

 

“Sometimes I think you're only friends with me for my potato waffles.”

 

Michael snorted quite unattractively into the mush that had rebelliously crept onto his tongue, and was currently oscillating from the back of his mouth to the cavern just behind his teeth repeatedly. When laughing he sprayed a small film of waffle goop onto the couch. Harry reared back in shock, _my poor couch_. He ventured cautiously, as if trying to appease a foreign drug lord who his life and livelihood depended upon, not knowing if his couch would survive such abuse,

 

“I can make you another if...?”

 

Michael shook his head fervently, stridently throwing Harry a tentative grin, before fixing up his rumpled and ominously stained shirt, which had rashly made a break for freedom – come undone – last night somewhere between the intervals of one fifteen and one nineteen; in other words brushing their teeth and taking their socks off. The reason _why_ it came undone was only known to those inhabiting the most outer edges of the universe, the beings currently watching Harry crash and burn in life with relish, fascination, and obligation – like the spectators of a premier golf tournament and their begrudged disappointed dragged-along families.

 

They guzzled the waffles dry, the carved out tunnel of their throats grumbling with intrigue from the pleasant burn. Dry waffles were unfortunately necessary, as Harry was currently lacking such necessities as jam, butter, rared meat or any brand of topping, along with enough courage to battle the dreaded Grocery Store – he had felt off centre ever since The Incident yesterday (however, if one gained enough scepticism to inquire, that failed to explain why his fridge had been empty ever since that night with Mr He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Muscle.) Harry scoffed two down ferociously like a wild ravenous beast eating for the first time in weeks, and Michael daintily ( _dainty in the fashion of shoving it as fast into one's mouth as possible_ ) consumed a single plain salty potato waffle.

 

“Mhhhmptrrrmm.”

 

Harry groaned around the waffle currently living in his mouth. Roughly translated to _well I'm fucked_.

 

“Meehmmmmmipfrrk.”

 

Mike replied, his eyebrow lifting of its own (sentient?) accord. Meaning _Yep_.

 

…

 

Harry ducked his bedraggled bed-head hair out the door, as well as his eyes, as he observed Mike sailing down the hallway. His friend had left shortly after another serving of waffle(s) and, without a reason to remain, promptly decided to return to his own – slightly snazzier – flat. The pale unsettling eyes of Jordan followed the Asian's loping figure; Mike was lithe, limber, and scarily thin from a diet of Harry's waffles, stir-fried vegetables, and shame. His neighbour's – Jordan's – pupils shone, quite similarly to the lights screwed half-hazardly into the hallway's ceiling, flickering in and out of life like a dying soul still clinging onto their last breaths, and Harry recalled Mike and Jordan's tumultuous turbulent semi-homicidal past.

 

Jordan and Mike had a... passive apocalyptic relationship, meaning they passively placidly waited until it all grew too much and the build up caused an explosion of cataclysmic consequence. It was a culmination of many things, of divides within them, all could be blamed – such as Jordan's unemployment and substance abuse issue and his best friend's controversial opinions on such topics, Michael's Asian background and Jordan's veiled racism, Jordan's stiff beliefs that women cannot be abusers and Michael's history of spousal abuse via a woman – but the prime and most guilty suspects were Jordan suspecting Mike to be fucking Harry without care or an iota of decent reputable love, and Mike frankly suspecting Jordan to be a drunken drug addict who sexually harassed his best friend on a daily basis. Jordan was quite obviously incorrect, as Mike had always been unyieldingly straight and Harry, consequently, adamantly terrified of injuring their friendship (when sober, of course – the burn of remembered shame scoured his neck like the blistering heat of dirty stale _lumpy_ yet still-boiling washing up water, he thought of last night's blur of flirting, kissing, and sleeping with the warmth of another beside him, cradling him like no one ever truly had – and he burned because he knew he would never _have_ that again, but viscous loving honey-sweet relief simultaneously flooded his body for he knew that his friendship with Mike was still unfailingly secure and impenetrable). And, Mike, well, Mike wasn't far off. Bar the sexual harassment – it was only a paltry game of one-sided eye-tennis and occasional fantasy imagined groping when Jordan was too drunk to remember that Harry was a man.

 

Jordan's fierce aflame gaze shifted from Mike's thinning figure to Harry's conspicuously thrust out head; the tips of his hair and eyes through the rattled rusty entryway akin to a baby crowning from a mother's womb. In other words, gross, bloody, but beautiful all the same.

 

Faint sibilant syllables ( _don't think of snakes don't think of snakes_ ) drifted aimlessly down the corridor, coalescing into insignificant phrases, confusing since there were no prominent or exaggerated 's's to be found in the sentence,

 

“Nice night last night, Evans?”

 

Jordan interjected with a sharp leer; Harry knew this was an interrogation by the hoods that hung under his eyes like violet sagging old lady tits. Dark shadows leapt across his face, there was beauty there as well, and the hall silenced itself; in fear of being _that person_ most probably. Still, stiff tension permeated the air like humidity, it clung to their skin and shrivelled down under the flaking grips of their uncombed locks until it was insinuated into the skull, into the brain, into the heart. This sheer unadulterated unmovement, unpeace, curled in between rib and lung, squeezing ever so slowly around the organ, never quite enough, ever insignificant, yet with every clench of the hand on the red flush of lung, they were that much closer to the sweet release of eternal sleep.

 

Merlin. Harry was _tired as fuck_.

 

Harry blushed faintly, ducking his head down so low that his eyes were directly perpendicular to the floor. He was a veteran of these comments, the snide veiled-envy quips that rarely splashed a pretty pink on his cheeks any longer, but was always affected somehow. The norm displayed itself as the barest lightest most gentle clench of hands in silent protest, the minimal shrivel of the wrinkles that decorated his eyes as he glared being the second most likely, often paired with the disapproving old-lady-librarian purse of lips eerily reminiscent to that of a misspoken carried noise that flaunted itself in the epitome of disgrace and disruption. Perhaps the reason that this morning, Harry flushed deep scarlet, was due to Jordan's words cradling a degree of fact to them. Harry _had_ come on to Mike, he had felt the soft immovable embrace of his cheek, he had fallen into his arms and drowned in golden warmth. Even if no sexual intimacies had been transacted, their emotional and physical closeness still brought a sheen of stubborn shame to his eyes; lowered like the submissive doe-eyed loser he was in that moment.

 

 _No. No._ Harry rejected the thought. He _was never_ one to give in (ignore those times with Natasha, and Mr. Stark, and Muscle, and Dumbledore, and the Dursleys, and everyone he had ever met). He was a _soldier_. A _warrior_. Enough of this mamby pamby bullshit. It was time to pull up his little girl stockings and face the world _like a man –_ feminine gorgeously smooth curvy figure be _damned_.

 

“I could _fuck_ any person in this whole building that I wanted, but _unlike_ _you_ , I have _class_ , and last night you would find me being the perfect _gentleman_. Get your head out of the gutter, Jordan. Oh wait, you _can't_ , because you're a fucking _moron_.”

 

Shock shoved itself unceremoniously down their gullets, like morally bankrupt potato waffles born from a discount market and seedy vendor, before a gleeful unsettling smirk brought Jordan's face into the limelight. Jordan entered the realm of jovial half-wrong giddiness when presented with the knowledge that Harry had reacted with such passion (his aim in life currently was to bring back Harry's _'lost fire'_ ) _;_ Harry could hear the note being taken down in his mind, the calloused scribe of mental granite against mouldy wisp-thin parchment. The thought: _Mike crosses a line_. And he knew Jordan would exploit that information to his heart's content at any available opportunity.

 

 _I've just handed him a free pass_ Harry groused to himself, knowing he had fallen for the simplest stupidest wind-up in existence. He fled the apartment, still dressed in the ruffled ruined rank uniform from yesterday, but did not heed the signs – rather he was more concerned with the metaphorical wolves yipping at his heels, Jordan's electric eyes and their demonic knowledge. Harry was powerless to this conversation, he was exhausted from Natasha's ( _don't think about it don't think about it shut up shut up shut up_ ) kiss from last night, and any attacks on the safety which was his friendship with Michael would surely cause his whole frame of support to collapse. _Run_ screamed the defensive part of him in a banshee's wail, _run for your life_.

 

Jordan sleuthed back into his decrepit hovel once Harry had escaped, new information striking up a wicked smirk – _Evans still had fire after all_.

 


	14. So Normal I'm Dying - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So... here we are, beginning this journey anew. I will attempt not to chicken out this time, so, yep. You know the drill; two times the length of a normal chapter, two week wait. And I'm posting this on a Wednesday, because I'm half evil half impatient. So... see you all in a fortnight and a half; ie. Saturday the 20th.
> 
> Beware: Allusions of Rape for OC (Marissa)

_So Normal I'm Dying – 1_

 

There remained a definite wrongness with the stagnation of life, that was to say when Harry arrived at work to find everything remarkably _the same_ as the previous day it struck a chord deep down in his soul. It seemed to be impossible that everything could shift so dramatically within him overnight and yet the rest of the world stilled, whirling in the madnesses of repetition, stilted in a constant state of change. Yet, each unnoticeably minuscule change held no impact on the greater placement of life – everything may change, from people to morals to words to the very sky above, and yet nothing changed whatsoever, the core of life remained, forever turning in tandem with reprehensible purposeless momentum.

 

 _Jamie's Café_ lived on, a setting of consistency and presumptuous languished festering _stillness_. Lesbians and people dressed like clowns and the mutually exclusive of those two and otherwise and those with sharpened canines, talons and fluorescent eyes, lingered... following the same script as always. Were they truly people? Were they puppets? Harry existed as a changed being, he appeared to be precisely similar to the person he was yesterday, however under the surface of the superficial – his skin, his dress, his jade eyes – he performed as a brand new sparkling specimen on the theatrical production of life, where every moment existed for the entertainment and judgement of others. No similarities could remain between the Him of yesterday and the Harry of today, nothing fitted or slotted in the same manner, no words felt real as he spoke and whispered and flushed like a small child's blooming excitement, the swell of new life. But, even as he fluctuated between the real and unreal, the alive and not so, there was a semblance of _same_ beneath it all, a soul of Harry-ness that never left and always annoyingly tenaciously clung to his side a la limpet. The cheap facsimile of smiles stuck fast to the waitresses of the diner, but everyone still desperately pretended that they were truly happy – it was the same as always.

 

And. Just like always. _She_ was there.

 

-0o0o0-

 

“I'm not... comfortable with her.”

 

It took a lot of only-mustered-by-the-wildest-of-miracles courage for Harry to come forward about this, knowing Jamie's predilection to joke in a knee-jerk reaction to anything remotely sexual regarding him (it was one of the core aspects of her personality, secondary to nepotist lenience for her sister). At the start of his career at Jamie's Café, he would never have dared to try anything remotely similar to this but there was a story – hidden behind smarmy smiles and darkly teasing scowls – that gave him an ounce of hope.

 

It had been night, late, the moon so drearily dulled from city lights that the silver sheen merged into a grey cement misery. It had been late February, people spreading then coalescing from far and wide to taste the delights of New York, be it the pleasures of cuisine of the pleasures of molten flesh; thus they'd been busy that Summer. It was hot, scorching, scolding and unseemly – so sickly sticky and humid that even flies would feel too lazy to escape the trapping claws of their human compatriots. It was the kind of heat that stuck to your clothes and messed with your hair, like an old haggard creepy uncle, but no one ever mentioned it for fear of sounding like a spineless eel and winning the disparaging ire of in-law's crooked stabbing remarks (it hurt but everyone pretended the words were painless injections, euthanasia, Harry slowly died from them).

 

Marissa had been working hard – she was saving up for her nephew's ballet recital tickets. Harry had been nursing a infantile (it grew in baby steps) almost insignificant crush from afar, it was airy and vapid, shallow and facsimile, vacuous yet solid beneath the bone-brittling wind, but it had warmed his heart on those cold nights in an closed damp morose flat, like nothing else could. He devoted far too long a work day to cataloguing her dimples when she smiled, or how the sun caught her hair just so, or even the sudden startling brilliance of her eyes' shimmer – she was magical. It had been a constant battle with Drunk Harry, who would emerge from the depths of his soul – and psyche – at night, from the dark decrepit walls that encased him, and unsuccessfully attempt to flirt with the youth of New York – the _male_ youth, _all the male youth, all the male possibly gay youth_. Drunk Harry was of course deluded beyond compare, but if one _were_ to attempt a comparison, one may liken Drunk Harry to Baby Draco Malfoy, who had become fervently convinced that the way to earn true friendship was via the single component of buying it – “a commodity”, his prickly father had assured him, “and all commodities have a price.”

 

Marissa had slaved away over the stove, one of the few _actually talented cooks_ of the café, her hair stuck fast to her forehead in the humid sticky heat of night. She sweated profusely, flushed and puce like an embarrassed primary-schooler on their first day realising they were alone in this new environment. A man as tall as a lamp post, dark as a black cat's pelt, with wide shining eyes like a bug's and hair oily and inky, greased and smooth, had gazed from afar also. It felt, somehow, wrong when this stranger did so, as if Harry had earned the privilege of staring like a lovesick puppy through his burgeoning friendship and kindness and sweetness – although he would argue to any that would listen that Marissa's friendship did not give her the permission to ogle him, so this logic would not hold up in court, but Harry's mental court was an illogical landscape buffeted with sharp reaching shards of hatred that somehow always came back to himself and fed on the innocent plump illustrious delicate veins of all _sense_. This new, unknown, _unsettling_ man was fierce fiery competition for Harry's halfhearted bittersweet affections. That night, in the middle of February, as Marissa closed shop and trudged out into the warm dawn-ish air, A Man had followed her, only a few paces behind.

 

He was human, Harry knew that, human in a way that most were of the human species. He had desires, wants, dreams, perhaps The Man was simply more in touch with his animal side; who was to say who was in the right? Who was to say who lived a better life? The Man (whether for better or worse) had crept, skulked, seamlessly trailed behind poor alone innocent Marissa – if one could call a snarky, sarcastic lady, prone to sexually pressuring her co-workers _innocent_ – as she began the long, arduous, and exhausting journey back to the upper-class area of Manhattan. She worked the same job as Harry, for less hours even, but lived in a flat-share with three other moderate women, and could afford a place of more virtue and beauty. Not that Harry held any dislike for his own cramped paltry place, rather he pertained a different unique brand of Stockholm-esque love for it.

 

The Man was banned, politely, judiciously, with little reprimand, from Jamie's Café after _that_ _night_ , and no words were shared on _that night_ ever again, everything was the same, except Marissa now travelled home with other girls – never alone. The moral of _that_ story was that Jamie had a heart, buried deep, after all.

 

So, there Harry stood, twitching as he was wont to do, mouth curling in unease, viper's tendrils insinuating their poisonous thoughts into his weak paper veins, in the terrifying wake of placing his fears onto another person and hoping that some good could come of it. This rash, notorious, dangerous _trust._ He was the bravest he had ever been in that moment, that split unfathomable second of unmeasured and unnoted time,

 

– a scientist down in America, Arizona perhaps, in the deep desert arid area where breath was scarce and clean breath scarcer, tirelessly painstakingly doggedly laboured over a formula to solve a problem none had considered, and in that moment they lay unacknowledged and unknown. Just as Harry stood there, about to begin the greatest leap of his entire existence unknown to a whole wizarding world that lay invisible to this entire dimension; they only existed in his mind now, no other he would ever meet here would for even a second consider the intricacies of another universe, always parallel, never touching but for Harry and his life. He was unknown to Mr. Muscle who stood, alone, staring out the window of his ivory tower, considering the world and love and gay sex once more (wondering over the majestic lady-man who had leapt and left in the dead of night, pondering over an empty bed he awoke in, sheets and hair mussed and crinkled, the faint stench of _male_ sweat on his skin like the most beautiful intoxicating – kinda gross – perfume and remembrance, musing over somehow finding that lady-man and being reunited and was this love? And would this last? And why did he lie about it being a girl? And why did Harry corroborate that? and-), Harry was not unknown to Muscle, but his actions were and would remain so, as Harry would never reveal this moment to anyone. He was unknown to the red headed fire witch, who loved him, who was still searching for him, for a way, always, the witch who in that moment came across Luna Lovegood who had a plan, and in that moment they were all unknown, all sparse and dark and hidden, but Harry was the bravest of all, for bravery is not of the action but of the self, and he, himself, was the most terrified and brave he had ever been–

 

none could compare, not killing Voldemort, nor the basilisk, nor asking Cho to the Yule Ball, or even making a Mimosa fuelled move onto Muscle. It was the sheer, unadulterated, unfiltered, pure and heady trust, dependence, he had placed into another human being, into a human being he disliked, almost detested, to echo and query over the single truth of his heart; that there was goodness in humanity.

 

In that moment he put it to the test.

 

“Whatever could you mean, Evans?”

 

Jamie's eyes were alight with mischief and glee, and Harry felt his heart sink into the black polluted waters of the harbour. She had him, she had him in her grasp, her hands chained around his neck, and he had given himself to her to feast on, like a naïve child walking into the slaughter house and expecting mercy. How could he have deluded himself? How could he have considered that she would give him mercy? _Her? Him?_ Her wickedness shone true in the artificial light of day, and Harry, with sickening certainty, knew he would have to face Natasha again. His gut gasped and gaped and teetered in despair, it fell out beneath him, there was a bottomless abyss in his plummeting stomach, and a cramp moiled its way ruthlessly through his helplessly feeble intestines, painful and stiff and unyielding it accosted him, it _dared destroy him_.

 

“Never mind.”

 

It was best to cut his losses now, to protect himself from her inevitable scorn, to slash his heart and run for the wind, bleeding but not yet fallen. Harry didn't know if he could bear _her_ today, neither of them, they were both devils in their individual forms. He simply did not contain the strength to carry on the façade, nor the will or way. Harry began to turn, his head ducking low as a certain familiar brand of resignation washed over him, and he was impossibly close to the exit when...

 

“Evans?”

 

He paused. His breath froze in his chest in a gas reminiscent of hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was something lovely warm and honey sweet in that dark stone cold heart of hers. Jamie might hold the capacity for it, _it_ , the human compassion, the barest of empathies, the slimmest glistening glimmer of change and sight and action. Perhaps he had misjudged her all along.

 

“Come, sit.”

 

She beckoned and Harry answered her siren's call, sleuthing his way over to the seat she stroked, as silent as a ghost. The room seemed to sway as he crept along the linoleum of the kitchen, his head felt light and euphoric, orgasmically relief ridden. It felt as if layers and levels of chains wrapped around him had been unlocked and dropped to the ground, it had slid painfully down his torso, shoulders, finally arms and the smell of mixed blood and rust filled the air like a beautific gift of nature, of Mother Magic, but there was also the tainted constant cloying constraining stench of victory that clogged his nostrils; to know that there had been sacrifice but gain as well. To know that it had not been for naught. To know that his pride had not been unfounded nor misplaced, that to give, to gift, was worth it. (this gift that was his trust, his soul)

 

Harry plopped down onto the stool, his eyes never quite meeting the entreating orbs of Jamie. His mouth twitched unnoticeably in rebellion, something dark and evil wanted to scream and break free. _Am I still drunk?_ The rational part of him queried softly, in a tender reminder not to stretch madness too far; this was his boss after all, not all was acceptable.

 

“What has she done? It must be serious for you to come to me. And I respect that, Evans, I know that you're a closed type of person, _introvertic_ if I may, I didn't even know you liked cock until recently! So, coming to me and revealing what's up must have been very difficult... so, tell me what happened, and I'll see what I can do.”

 

Jamie's words were gentle, soft, prodding, everything she wasn't. They were not brisk, demanding, demeaning or raunchy, they didn't scour at his skin like grating sandpaper and command him to present his darkest most volatile desires to the world. She pulsed as the antithesis of herself in that moment, she birthed a new being, this was _Serious Jamie_ as a replacement for _every other Jamie in existence_ , only a faulty copy of herself, soon the Real Jamie would return and end this façade. It did not matter what words she uttered, it was the _way_ she said it, the pathos to her miraculous speech.

 

Harry thought, in that moment, of the complexity of humanity. Were there boundless capacities of Jamies out there, was she the only one with this heart, or was she the only one with her own coldness? How long had she hidden this part of her from him? Had he ever truly known her at all? It was as if a new brand of beastliness were flaunted upon his sights, as if the world had tilted and refused to right itself. How _dare she_? How _dare she become this person? What right did she have to transform into this... abominable spectre?_ Surely, surely, this was not reality, surely Harry was dreaming in his back-twisting-mauling bed and would wake in a cold sweat, to forget this nightmare. Surely this was only the wildest most terrible consequences of imagination.

 

“Last night, when you'd fallen asleep in the back room, she said she wanted me to walk her home. Its awfully dark out there, she said, and in this neighbourhood, you never know. I obliged. We walked down the street for a few moments, before she pulled me into a back alley. She... she...”

 

Harry felt choked up. Merlin, this was embarrassing. Why was he acting like this? Why was he asking this in the first place? He felt sordid, wrong, incorrect. How _dare he_? How _dare he think he had a right to feel upset_? She hadn't done anything, she had done nothing wrong. There was no need for this discomfort. It was unfounded, it was lies, it was-

 

“...she began to kiss me. She put, put her hands under my jacket... and... she kissed in the crook of my neck, you know, and, I didn't. I didn't want it, Jamie, I didn't...”

 

His words stuttered to a disappointing halt. They had been moving, had been in motion, had boarded the Kings Cross train from one place to another, but had fallen off the rusted grave track all too soon, and all the audience of the auditorium and all of the arena and all of the people in the world sitting on the edges of their seats and watching with eyes glued to his life, were waiting, pensive, tentative, excited, for them to continue. But it wouldn't. Once it stopped, how could he ever start it again? Harry realised, belatedly, that he had called her Jamie. He couldn't recall the last time he had done so _(maybe I never have),_ and thus knew in that moment that this was a nightmare come true.

 

Had he ever done so, called her by her real name? Acknowledged her humanity? Were they finally shedding themselves and becoming vulnerable? Would Harry finally let her fuck him with a dildo, had their relationship progressed to that point of trust? Why _not_? _Why_ _not_ go all the way and bring down all their walls? The next step was ecstasy, was it _not_ , was it _not_ _fated_?

 

Absently, he thought of how strange this was. He was so worked up over only a kiss, how did that make any sense? He had been to war, _war_ , blood and guts and friends (Fred) dying, Voldemort's red pained innocent eyes as he scattered himself into a fettered feared abominable (snowman) death in a haze of black ashes and _avada_ _kedavra, green and melancholic against his cheek, a slash of lightning, as if from God itself, who was he to interfere with God? Who was he?_ (Tom Riddle, his breath soft and husky – like a kitten pelt or a puppy's slobbering hot pant on painted children's cheek – as he whispered _paraphrased of course_ that they ought not to get caught up in fantasy, in flights of fancy, it was a dangerous world after all, and Harry was wilfully being awfully strange standing there in the hallway and watching him and his beautiful eyes and pretty cheekbones and gorgeous heart-stopping lips as they formed those sibilant hisses that sent shivers of pure lust and arousal down his spine, he longed to rip off those Head Boy robes and-), standing in the Ministry of Magic and being awarded the Order of Merlin First Class, just like Gilderoy Lockhart, his smile felt so fake and flaking and illusionary and facsimile and this was the _real magic wasn't it? The real show_?, and then there was Ginny, smelling of radiant summer spice and warm love and honey sweet lightness, who was so right for him, who was so right in all the ways that he wasn't – Ron looked so happy when he announced the news, the news, that they were getting hitched, tying the knot, the old chain and ball, _“Finally, its taken you two forever, you deserve it, Harry, all the happiness in the word, Merlin knows you deserve it. I want you to be happy.”_.

 

And now he couldn't handle a single rowdy kiss in a darkened alley, lip stick stains were his undoing, he was but a small child coerced by his aunt to kiss her on the cheek, and he was so very ruined by it. Was he soft?

 

There survived a sense of wrongness in him now, he felt.. disturbed and disjointed. All his bones had been unhooked from their skin tight moulds in his gut and now they swum all in the wrong place, all floating about in viscous acidic rotten fluid that slowly melted them to death. Things had become shaken up – things as in life and life as in the things within it – he could still taste her on his lips. It, perhaps It wasn't even the act itself, was volatile in his stomach, exploding combustive revolving revolting particles that lacked the capacity to give him peace, lacked the humanity to understand that he hadn't wanted it. The Act had not caused tremendous harm, he was unharmed, not injured, he had not fallen into a depression nor committed himself to any hardcore drugs, Harry felt no urge to implode.

 

But.

 

(there was always a _but_ , always a _something else_ , always an _argument_ , he could never be _satiated_ )

 

It was the thought of It; how she had kissed him, had pressed him against the wall, had not asked if he had wanted such a thing, had assumed him, had followed in the footsteps of everyone of always assuming everything all the time, had seen him – his skimpy outfit and nervous constitution – and had assumed to know, had taken something from him, had taken that choice away. Harry relied upon the simplicity of choice, and Natasha had removed that choice very easily, in a way that frightened and panicked him. It galled him, too, to be considered someone able to be effortlessly duped, gullible, young and blind and incompetent; he didn't like the way she had methodically seduced him – as if he were simply a puzzle to mechanically solve and destroy like clockwork, _tick tock tick tock and now you use your tongue to become the catalyst of his undoing and the thief of all his heart and secrecy_ – and then shoved him, harshly (the ice cold feel of frozen wall still hung in phantom touches against his bridged back) kissed him, roved his mouth, placed her tongue in his lips, under his tongue, on his cheek, under his skin, under his flesh, under his bones, in his bones, in his heart, in his brain, _can't get rid of her_ , and marked him. He didn't like the feeling of being prey, of preyness, it didn't appeal to Harry, especially after months on the run from Death Eaters _as prey_. The fear it stirred in his belly wasn't for shits and giggles.

 

Death Eaters, as a concept, now seemed to amuse him in some lights. Perhaps it had been fated for Death Eaters to searched for the Master of Death, maybe Harry's whole life was just Death's sister's sick idea of a joke. Maybe he was a Christmas present. It felt kind of nice to be considered a present for someone, as if Harry had brightened Death's day. Or maybe he was a punishment – he didn't favour that as much.

 

Harry fancied the concept that he could do what he wished with his mouth; that he had a right to it. It was his little green patch of suburban private property – a picket fence of whitened teeth and a red lush garden of tongue flesh that _he_ owned. He shoved the idea on a pedestal of epic proportions that he could hold his mouth to himself if he so pleased, could snap it shut. It was not on a list of life-long desires that a married woman made off with it when he wasn't tirelessly paying constant attention – as if overseeing a child to make certain that it wasn't scurrying away at every spare glance.

 

He didn't want her.

 

He didn't like how she had stolen his sense of self and ease, he had lost confidence (what little he had retained in the squirrel-stores throughout his journey in the Wizarding World Washing Machine and the Dursley Residence Make Over Programme to the Fuck You I'm Death's Bitch Remodel) in his safety, in the goodness of others, in the motives and plans. Harry no longer scuttled to work – _crab style –_ and felt at ease inside, he now absorbed others in suspicion, he observed – numb, detached, don't get attached, _they will only hurt you –_ others with the persistent dulled backdrop drum solo of _distrust_. It suddenly occurred to Harry the reason why he had tried to kiss and fuck Mike, the night before, was not because he wanted sexual relations (well, maybe he did a _bit_ , Mike was _smokin'_ ), but because he needed to test if Mike would betray him also. Natasha seemed to have acquired and removed and ruined his intricate and delicate ability to trust, to believe; before, the sexual harassment of lesbians had been annoying, now it thrummed wild and manic in fear and resentment.

 

“Okay, she's out. Now, get back to work.”

 

And it was as simple as that.

 

Everything was fixed now. None of the way he felt before remained. He was safe now; threat gone, _no need to feel unsafe anymore_. _Stop it._ Natasha was banned from the fine dining establishment of Jamie's Café, never to return again on pain of death.

 

Relief pulverised Harry into a meat sandwich, ready for consumption. Jamie gave him a wicked flirty smile and whispered as he left the room, her words hung in the air, unheard and unacknowledged,

 

“ _Call me if you want to help test out my latest strap-on, darling_.”

 

Some things never changed. Harry felt somehow soothed by that; it was nice to have consistency, it helped him keep his bearings when the world inevitably shifted under his slippery feet once more. Perhaps Jamie was his core all along, and he simply had not realised it until this present moment.

 

_What a depressing thought._

 


	15. So Normal I'm Dying - Part 2

 

_So Normal I'm Dying – 2_

 

Through methods unknown to any silly enough to have attempted to pay attention – that was to say those far-off observational aliens – Harry recovered a semblance of normalcy over the following weeks of static life. He thrived in the calm existence which was monotony, managing to avoid any further collisions with mimosas (it was never to last) and miraculously continued on as usual.

 

Or.

 

Harry _wished_ that was what happened.

 

Fucking life. And fucking authors who _feed_ off drama, damn vampires exist in more than Twilight's shitty concept, I mean, _sparkles, really?!_ ( _fourth wall breaks are just the worst_ said Random Guy #17 from the Mimosa Hive Mind consequently, on a completely unrelated note)

 

-0o0o0-

 

It was Day Two of recovering from the Back Alley Non Consensual Make Out Session (or just after his conversation with Jamie), and Harry was succeeding in ignoring the tension between him and Mike (due to the embarrassing kiss), ignoring the tension between him and Jamie (due to a share of trust), ignoring the tension between Harry and himself (due to internal conflicts), and ignoring general tension (due to the aforementioned stressed-the-fuck-out parties). The efficacy of this success was not to be determined correctly (due to everything being frustratingly subjective), but Harry pretended _damn well_ that it was all fine and dandy (he was becoming a fan of obsessive bracket overuse).

 

Work passed in an unrecognisable blur. There was no Natasha to consider or worry over, so the clients fell into their natural state of hazy sexual harassment and pitying clucks of reprimanding silent tongues. Jamie tacked 'longer lingering glances at Evans' onto her daily to-do list, but attended work no differently – keeping a stern eye over the shop in the hopes of catching a possible fish/date-worthy man, the milk man had fallen through once again, so she had set her sights and fantasies on the baker down the street (from her indistinct ramblings apparently he had a _shiny corvette_ so Harry supposed he was either a rich ponce slumming it or a crook). Her sister had returned from self-imposed leave that day (it was a second separate whole “sick day” of her seducing a customer, not the same one from a few weeks ago, and exalting in the sexual profits. Harry was half convinced she was a prostitute), reuniting with Jamie carrying a hand-bag full to the brim with romantic hotel chocolate and a guilty limp that spoke of many an hour being slammed up against the headrest of a mahogany bed disturbing the neighbours (perhaps Amy and Jordan were in cahoots).

 

All in a good night's work.

 

Lotus had laboured a shift late after school, her hair done up in the usual messy bun before compressed down inhumanely in a scalp-skinning hairnet, orders taken with a cordial yet distant drawl. Harry steered clear of her (and her strawberry blonde _basically red_ hair) wary and trying to keep his cool, but it was all for naught because on their shared break in the back room she broke out some complicated math equations that summoned a bloated sense of inadequacy in Harry; he wouldn't even know where to start, and Lotus was only in the General Maths class. A feeling of deep familiar loathing stirred deep inside his chest at that thought (he had been volatile since The Kiss, and was falling back on old trails of thought) – he was still pounding through the pages of Year 9 text books, trying to regain a semblance of _ordinary_ knowledge that would be expected of a man his age. It wasn't very difficult, per say, rather he lacked the time or will – he was completely self sustained and sometimes felt it difficult to gather motivation, but, every Sunday, he would practice magic in the morning and school work in the evening, and one of these days he could apply to take his SATs. _Like you could ever pass_ hoarsely snarled the large tumour-shaped lump of insecurities in his throat.

 

Once work had ended – late into the night with half a dozen more notches added to his 'ass grabbed' mental bed post – Harry hurried home, dragging his jacket all the way to his ears to avoid the bone-deep chill of open Harlem. A few late night stragglers – with jeans so loose and pockets so empty they needed two belts – cat-called , but Harry simply rolled his eyes and scurried right on his way (they were only young boys, not even ten yet, and ignited no threat in his jittery gizzard). He skipped the bi-nightly Jordan conversation, not ready to face _that_ yet, or his newest pseudo blackmail material, this time linked to Mike somehow (a predictable consequence of their morning conversation, and something along the lines of a scornful _“Have fun fucking Mike today”_ just to rile him up _),_ and barricaded himself in his home.

 

Part of him felt like never leaving this room. He had enough potato waffles to last months if rationed properly, a large compiled bucket of savings, and years worth of reading material. If Harry _needed_ to stay in he could, and the temptation shoved itself right in his face; he could remain here, alone, safe from the world, protected, this little cosy chapel had never let him down, no one could contact him, he could magically barricade the door or something, he would work it out, he could spend his days snuggled in bed with a warm potato waffle and soothing tea, it would be so _easy_ , it would be so _simple_ , he could heal in peace. This could be sanctuary.

 

But. ( _here we go again, another_ _ **but**_ )

 

Harry could never live so. He could never free himself. Just as living here was salvation it was also penance for war crimes, for deaths he couldn't prevent, lives he couldn't save. He lived here, in this shack with ruined walls and inadequate bedding, with no company and no pleasure and no reprieve not only for peace of mind, but for discomfort, for that itchy feeling under his skin of _wrong_. To appease the demon slithered through the knots of his spine. He experienced bane-of-this-complex Jordan's many pain inducing headaches, not out of goodwill or resistance to the self, but out of consequence, out of time _payed back_. Over two years he had existed in this new world, all alone, truly (Michael was a necessity, for otherwise he would surely rot and what penance was death?), and it was not out of incapability, not out of restrictions outside his control – no Voldemort had holed him inside this insidious cavern, no Wind or Fate or Dursleys had entrapped him – it was containment of the mind – of the soul. There was something broken inside him and it beseeched him for reparations, it begged, it wailed like a grief stricken father – open and oozing and bled out so pallid that vampires shone their tanned faces in the reflective surface of that _ice skin_. Harry, fugitive he was, could never be forgiven, could never let himself live in luxury, for _he_ was the captor, _he_ was the cause, and _he_ believed in righting wrongs beginning with his own.

 

Why else would a boy capable of _magic_ chose to keep the fridge that had once contained a dead rodent? Something must be terribly broken inside the heart of _that boy_. That _thing_.

 

 _He_ was the enemy. The final frontier was no Voldemort vacuous wasteland, no majestic train station with two directions and one man dictating for the lives of everyone, no Dursley stained kitchen side with no cleaning cloth but his own rugged worn down tongue. The only way _out_ was to jump _from that window_ , and Harry Fucking Potter _did not_ give up until the whole damn world was aflame. He was no boy, no child, he was a _warrior_ , he was a _brave soul who had killed, had taken breath, opportunity, had ruined and blackened and sullied **and he was still breathing for he was a survivor**_. He was immortal, invincible, holy and just and...

 

And yet there was no purpose behind this. It mattered not if he saved every soul in humanity. It changed not a single wisp of morality and fate if he had cured young sociopath _black eyes black soul black tongued_ Tom Riddle from himself, if he had lamented the pathogen and birthed a new era of _new_ , a new word for _mudblood_ which was _cleansed soul_ , and _open wound_. No cleaning could possibly occur, no stitches could suture or abstain the pain. Harry lived in the past – even if he was technically in the future by eleven years – because he never forgot, he never forgave, and his hands remained in an iron grip on his own thumping rhythmic clockworked tendon. He held his life in his own hands, and it was the worst punishment Death could have bestowed – _Harry did not rely on choice, he relied on being the subject of control_. He had no fate, no path, no designed designated _you're the chosen one, Harry, the chosen one_ existence. He was a master-less puppet, maddened lone wolf who _needed_ the pack. There could be no redemption for he did not know the way, and there was no way to _discover_ what did not _exist_. Deep, buried behind layers of himself, was the core of it, the true being, and that person was utterly disgusting and immoral and deserving of no justice or cure. Harry pointlessly prevailed over his own decrepit detritus – his own malignant existence. Curb your curled snake-forked tongue and pray to Christ almighty because his whole life was a sham built on the infrastructure of _blood_. It drips thick and oily and slick down his cheeks, like tears but never touching that parallel liquid, never gaining the instinctual innocence of despair, only _hate_ was _death_ , even if it was simultaneously the most glorious freedom.

 

Who was he but the death of his parents? Who was he but the death of Quirrel? Who was he but the death of Dumbledore? Who was he but the death of Fred? Who was he but the death of Voldemort? Who was he but the death of himself?

 

That was it. That was the circumference of this spherical shining orb in his diaphragm, this magical pulsing _soul_. Death had not chosen him from any living soul because he just _happened_ to collect three objects, he had chosen Harry because Harry _was_ death – at his core he was rotten mucus, he was still the screaming baby left alone with a long excruciating _mark_ , he was _made_ for this. Harry had _not_ survived the attack on Voldemort, he was no _living human_ , he was no _child_. There was an imposter slipped into his skin, it had lived there for twenty years and it wasn't leaving yet. This _demon_ was _him_. He was burdened with this life, but he had earned the pain all the same – it was all the result of his choices after all.

 

_You still want to go out and get plastered?_

 

Harry blinked, glassy eyes fading as he fished out his illuminated Nokia cell. Mike; because who else would it be? He typed back a scatterbrained response, his mind still scrambled from his submersion of thought ( _this is why I get drunk, I can't let myself think like this, its dangerous_ ).

 

_Wouldn't miss it._

 

Ten moments passed. His heart lacked the courage to beat; instead the apartment was a motionless machine of stilted gravity. No clock thumped, no cogs fell into use, no oven chimed, no ready-made secreted bed ruffled itself and awoke with matted hair and sleep-ridden eyes. The phone's electronic light blared in the near darkness, casting his face in a blinding blue sheen – he had forgotten the light – and Harry simply sat, a frozen creature in this tableau, a dramatic prop to be manhandled and adjusted as the director saw fit. _Sit, frozen, Harry, do not move a muscle, my boy, do not spoil the scene_. He was insensate, disproportionate (his limbs were leaden heavy hanging ornaments off his body, useless and paralysed), and detached from himself. He was a divorced figurine, existence levitated over his bowed head, he thought not from the safety of his mind but from an off corner in the room, a spare space, the warm musty hearth under his rusted bedraggled fold out bed. Harry ghosted around, ghoul and spectre, invisible in this empty room, the pulse of an unfolded body his only company _or was that his own body?_

 

_Brooding manhunt 5 mins?_

 

The marionette replied, face blank and eyes empty,

 

_sure._

 

When Harry said he needed a second to gather _himself_ – he meant it quite literally.

 

-0o0o0-

 

As he stepped out into the flush of night, Harry felt himself reanimate. With every step down the slippery side walk, and breathy lively gust of wind against his reddened cheeks, he felt reinvigorated and alive. He became himself again, left the dark thoughts of his flat behind, and began to anticipate the drinking night with Mike. There was a certain healing power in walking, in moving, in the _action_ of it. Thoughts and action, although intrinsically linked, opposed one another from every angle, thus acting was a balm for thoughts and vice versa.

 

It was nice to be out. Especially out with a bucket full of booze. These weeks of abstaining had been driving him slowly steadily insane, and now he could indulge once more and fix the slight crick in the neck of their friendship.

 

Or maybe it was just Harry over-thinking it, Mike hadn't seemed bothered over the kiss – but like him, his friend was a grandmaster magician of concealing his true feelings. As fragile as Harry had been, he knew it was only simple logic that Michael would place Harry's well-being over his own. Hopefully tonight, in a more lucid calm state of mind, Harry could deduce the contentedness of his friend. He would hate to take advantage of him, or be anything remotely like that horrific unforgivable _witch_ Genine. (not that she even deserved the same title as his lovely Ginny had once owned, rather _bitch_ would suffice more aptly)

 

Harry sometimes felt like a moody teen again, angry, dramatic, high strung. Maybe it was this whole stressful situation; it brought out the worst in him.

 

The world felt drawn in shades of complex, every intricate detail engraved in his mind like magical writing upon the Gringotts code of arms. He needed to stop thinking. Harry needed to start _living_ , otherwise the world would always only be a side show, he would never be _present_. Harry needed to _leave_ his own mind and feelings _behind_ , like a train car unhooked and left to settle on the tracks as the front car thundered along, long smoky huffs of fuel chugged up from its neck and out into the atmosphere. Otherwise he would surely choke – he was a _free man_ now, he needed to stop this immature route of living.

 

So what if Mike was pissed off at him? Their friendship had persevered through tougher situations. People were more than their vices and mistakes. Honestly, what _right_ did _Mike_ have to be upset? Some fucking psycho chick had sucked his neck in an alley last night, of _course_ Harry would be rattled. If Michael was mad, then Harry was steaming from the ears, overdosing on Pepper Up potions.

 

-o-

 

Harry and Mike drank, on the same side of the bar, stools clinking together like anniversary wine glasses. Harry winked in tandem with the cat calling lesbian that normally eeped him out of his skin, and Mike curled his neck around to gawk at the bombshell on aisle seven, his nervous demeanour drawing her in somehow as she licked her lips in response... maybe she just preferred to take the lead ( _or maybe she is dangerous_ Harry found himself thinking without permission). _The Brooding Manhunt_ gained new liveliness that night as the duo exalted in their freedom. They were _alive_ and that was a mesmerising concept, to hang onto the past was only to shackle yourself to a run away train and the stagnant tracks beneath you – you would be torn in two.

 

Harry, though, within their first five shots, had a nagging suspicion that he had spied a familiar _wig_ of brown hair. His gut clenched in worry – what if it was _her_ – but Harry swept away the feeling and enjoyed time out with his best friend. No need to worry, it was probably nothing. They sunk into a game of Never Have I Ever, like teens at a party, anxious over their own spilled secrets but drawn into others hidden intentions like a moth to a flame. The price always worth the prize!

 

“Never have I ever... _had gayyyyyy sex_!”

 

Harry snorted into his Mimosa, causing a blonde (do I know you?) barman to shoot an unimpressed yet faintly amused expression in his direction, it was awfully familiar. Mike waggled his eyebrow as if it was a long worm, and Harry felt deep envy – he'd never been able to move his eyebrow with such skill and control. _Unfaiiiiirrrr_...

 

He gulped down a shot so quick that it burnt like fire in his gut, but settled himself with a long luxurious swallow of Mimosa. Harry and Mike were juggling Vodka with Gin and Mimosa, respectively. The best friends alternated beverages between rounds. Harry thought he was winning, but was unsure if one _could_ win at Never Have I Ever. He was certainly drunk...

 

Harry boasted,

 

“Never have I ever... had a family who weren't total _asshats!_ ”

 

Michael, if sober, would have recognised the moment for what it was, a solemn admission of a past he had heard almost nothing about, but was currently off-his-balls tipsy-as-fuck, so responded with a deep belly laugh that almost caused him to escape the loose hold of his chair. Almost... but Harry was not so lucky, and gracefully found himself in a face first meeting with the mildewesque floor below.

 

Mike crooned,

 

“My family is so _great_ , _sucked in_ mate! Thar's terrible!”

 

Harry kicked him in the gut half-heartedly, and Mike consequently fell off his chair. They ended up snuggled on the floor in an impromptu puppy pile. In retaliation to their disorderly conduct, the barman said in a faux austere tone, a smile in his eyes,

 

“No excess PDA!”

 

A bell went off in Harry's mind, and his eyes lit up, as if he had remembered this barman saying such a thing long long ago in a similar bar in a similar PDA related situation. Michael recognised _that look_ straight away and made a cross sign above his heart. Sweet mother of Jesus, this was not a good sign! Harry smirked wickedly, a vessel for malign forces, before stumbling to his feet. He lifted his arm upwards, as if pulled by an unknown force in the heavenly direction, and began to march towards the exit.

 

“Hazaar!” he said, words royally expelled like that from a knight reporting to their king on bended knee ( _oh la laa bended knee yes please_ said the very gay drunk part of Harry's soul), “I shall empa... inba... _embark_ on a, erm, _quest_ to find my glorious bellu... _beloved_. Mr Muscle!”

 

Michael suffocated his face with his hand, groaning to himself in a distraught manner,

 

“ _No_... Harry... You're being a _silly billy_...”

 

Harry grinned with confidence gained via the Mimosa way of life, and chanted with vigour,

 

“Who else shall clean.. _cleanse_ me of that wicked wretch's, erm, _tongue_ tharn my own knight and pavement... _saviour_ , Mr. Muscle!”

 

The barman's eyes shone with a familiar glint, and he chuckled to himself. The bar was ignoring the scene and going about their own antics/mooching, someone was face first in their soggy chips and fish but didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave such a state. Michael was trying to drown himself in the floor. Thus, alone and unhindered, Harry charged out the door, running as if missing joints in his legs, stumbling aided by alcohol, ready for his destiny.

 

-0o0o0-

 

Yep, this was normal.

 


	16. So Normal I'm Dying - Part 3

_So Normal I’m Dying - 3_

 

He somehow found his way to Stark Tower with little to none of any illustrious “directional ability” – that is to say, his orienteering skill had steeply declined since he had begun to trust his sober self to, well, _stay_ sober. Fuelled by unquenched desire and fiery Mimosas, the trip was not as difficult as it would have been to any other drunk-as-a-skunk New Yorker, magic may or may not have been involved. ( _undefined mumblings_ )

 

Stark Tower stood erect _(oh la laa gimme gimme),_ emu-esque, and looming like a large glowing malformed Christmas ornament. At night it was bereft of any paparazzi or customers banging down the doors, rather they had decided to explore other avenues, hounding on other celebs at late night luncheons or whatever the right did on a Saturday. As Harry stumbled his way to the entranceway, he realised it was most likely abandoned of any life due to the large stop-sign red block letters that declared;

 

“ _NO ENTRY_ ”

 

It was odd to think a sign could have such a impactful degree of sway over the hearts and minds of rebellious New Yorkers. For this complex situation – no guards, big scary sign in his face, locked door – Harry did the only reasonable action he could think of; he knocked.

 

Sounds of night hummed in the background, the shuffling of shoes on the pavement, the rustling of bushes with late night pissers and pissing contests and people generally pissing away their existences, the whining cloying smell of gasoline coupled with the shrieks of engines and constant mechanical clicks of cogs turning. Against the maelstrom of noise, Stark Tower was a veritable graveyard – Harry felt as if crickets would soon begin to expel their wails to label this moment as it truly was; that of absent awkward loneliness. There was no one here to laugh at this gargantuan bloody sign, because there was _no one here_. Except Harry, but Harry, with his drunken mumblings, occasional meetings with the ground, and bleary eyed attention span that caused him to knock three or four more times, was as quiet as a mouse – as in very squeaky and often unhygienic.

 

His knuckles wrapped against the thin pane of glass once more. Harry eschewed from saying “hello”, for his drunken slovenly self felt it would be silly since the building lacked ears to hear him with, but _did not_ abstain from knocking around ten times; since that made _sense_. He leaned on the door, cupping his fingers over his face as if shielding from the empty sun, and peered inside. The glass was crystal clear and sparklingly clean, except for where his breath misted against it, and inside he could spot two lengthy silver-sheened couches with a futuristic air and little available actual _seat space_ , and a semi-circle receptionist's desk that lacked any personal knick knacks, but had substituted household ornaments of sentimental paraphernalia with a monstrous collection of pot plants. There were three ferns at the feet of the desk, five compact orderly prim roses next to the off-line computer, all primed and trimmed so that they sat as if they had a superiority complex ( _damn prim roses, be less prim and proper_ ), and, surprisingly enough, a gluttonous overflowing wisteria bush, that fell from the side of the desk onto the floor, twined stringy limbs splayed like hair upon a pillow. Harry had a suspicion that all these exhibits of flora existed to warn off those with flower allergies – it was the way of those big corporations after all, never kind to the... easily sneezable, or was Harry misremembering something to do with a flower sweat shop?

 

Eh, _who cares_.

 

Above the back wall, that the desk was cocooned around, was a neatly framed document. Harry, squinting from where he was caressing the door ( _that had escalated quickly, has the door consented?_ ), tried to read the writing, but came up short. He suspected, his mind a carnival of the disorderly at present, that the framed official-looking paper was a license of some sort, or perhaps a diploma. How funny would it be if it was just a drawing, or even a random arrangement of words? It would not fit the “completely organised except in instances of biennials” vibe the desk had going – Harry was struck with the thought that he would really like to meet this receptionist. Just who the hell were they?

 

He knocked again, conveniently slobbering against the one clean un-misted segment of door next to his face, meaning he had to shuffle a few inches to the left to be able to see more about the place. Except, that was about _it_. There was a nondescript obligatory painting strung up on the wall, foisted into a similar dull-as-dust frame to that of the “mysterious document”, and the ceiling was cream with fashionable blue carpet wall-to-wall. But, all in all, for a corporation super power, it was a little, well, _disappointing_. Harry had expected gold platinum chairs, a massive imposing counter-top filled to the brim with familial gifts, stuffed bunnies, children's drawings, the weirdly sculpted pottery from the husband who was undergoing an “urban trend” (an awful medical procedure that had side effects of ; gassy because of  “trendy urban” greens, and _darling do you like my malformed pottering?_ ), and of course _a filing cabinet_. He'd been promised (by his own untrustworthy imagination) a veritable _paradise_ of a lobby, and instead he had been saddled with _this_ sad culmination of the present. Maybe this was just where he was now.

 

For the first time since arriving in this universe, staring at a perfectly ordinary, affordable, acceptable computer that a _preschooler_ could probably enjoy, Harry felt very very lost.

 

Just, _where_ were the diamond encrusted chandeliers? Did Stark's company _want_ them to be underwhelmed? Was this all about being sucked into a false sense of security?

 

To be honest, even drunk Harry could not keep up this level of concern for a lobby. It was a lobby – it wasn't the end of the world. What was truly concerning him was the _muscle_ of this situation, or the very conspicuous _lack there of_. Where on Earth was Mr. Muscle? Harry had come here to be romantically involved, sexually perused, ass-not-left-in-tact cuddled! Albeit, perhaps he could do some of those things _alone_ , but would most definitely _prefer_ Mr. Muscle's _helping hands_.

 

Wasn't Harry meant to be _not gay_ , or, was that someone else? His memory certainly went to _shit_ and died in a fiery explosion when Mimosas were involved.

 

His hand slammed against the door once more, the knocking reaching its crescendo, yet the call was left unanswered, and Harry felt a frown grace his face. _Fine! I'll just go home!_

 

His legs marshalled him away from the door ( _due to strict orders from the brain_ ), his hands adjusted his collar to present a suitably composed air to the world, and his lips rose into the triumphant ( _drunken_ ) smirk. Now...

 

...which direction was home again?

 

-o-

 

The sun awoke glittering and golden, a warm sunny smile upon the face of the Earth, greeting the new day with hope and wonderment. Rays of light split over the people of New York, submerging them in a halo of novelty, curling around them in wisps of gracious embrace. Beauty was rife in a small hours of the morning, the aesthetics prevalent in the hearts and minds of the working class who wrenched open their lids as frantic alarms screeched out, like a rogue winged fiend, but, even there, serenity lay dormant – in each singular marvellous feather of a birds wing as it outstretched, a bleed of scarlet and sunshine blue across the span of its long outstretched limb, beak twisting to the side as it began the day, wide eyed and ready to fly. Life's beauty was framed by windows that people had long stopped looking out of.

 

Or... The sweet luxurious smell greeted Harry like the surprise of arriving home, closing your door, and realising there was a splotchy obnoxious stain of bird crap on your jacket. The smell was certainly _something_ , and right now the predominant _sensation_ of this _beautiful morning_ was... trash in Harry's hair. Specifically, Harry's head, in piles of literal black custom-use garbage bags, with filings of shredded rotten pulp coating his hair, having spilled out in the night, in Harry's hair. In his Potter Hair. In his _beastly Potter Hair with a proclivity for making life impossible, ie. Harry's hair was not “becoming clean” any time soon_.

 

Harry had the most awful _feeling_ that he was going to go to out into the world, and his hair would smell like bird shit. It was unequivocally saturated in shit. It seemed like it was going to be _one of those days_.

 

Hey, at least it was Sunday. No work today. Say 'thank you' for small mercies.

 

Harry's bones groaned as he dragged himself from the ground. A rectangular obstinate piece of garbage bag stuck to his shoe as he began to walk away, and a sudden and inexplicably intense bout of humour welled up in his chest like a spell of dizziness. This was his life. Yep. Waking up in _garbage_. Harry smothered a hysterical belly laugh with a desperate hand (that also smelled of garbage _for your information_ ), and hobbled his way out of the alley. A few of the local regular homeless residents of this alley shot him dirty looks as he passed them. Harry, in his inebriated state of disarray last night, had probably enacted some offensive nasty things upon them. Who knew, maybe he sold the crazy cat lady's feline friends, last time he got black out drunk he depressingly tried to come on to his best friend, and the time before that slept with a _man_.

 

Hey, at least he blacked out and couldn't remember any of it. No memories today. Say 'thank you' for small mercies.

 

He clucked his tongue in greeting at a cankerous old lady who gave off crazy cat vibes. He clicked his teeth and parried her death glare with a double handed pistol shot. Or, Harry made funky gestures, and innocent bystanders suffered for it. She tutted to him. She lifted her nose as if he were utterly beneath her, before adjusting her soggy newspaper dress and waddling, hunched, back towards her oblique decrepit hovel carved out in black snow, moving so slow as if to emulate a swamp Eskimo. Harry somehow felt she was justified for her insolent disparagement... he was prone to being a prick on Sundays, mostly because of the sheer euphoria of _not having to work_.

 

He could go anywhere in the world today. Do anything he liked. Harry could travel South, to the moon, to the beach, up a tree. He could straddle the peak of a coconut's neck, legs dangling off either side like a child over their father's dark large leather recliner, eyes staring out at the never ending travels of the ocean, the in and out, the raging tide, the wind would yank his hair this way and that, he would be caught in the eye of the storm, but the unadulterated freedom of the moment would be worth it, if only for the holy breath of peace. Harry's eyes would catch alight, and the lone coconut tree on this oasis in the sea would ignite into a thousand fiery flames, all licking at his heels with heat, all spurned by his jilted yet righteous passion. _Burning would never be more glorious._

 

There were any number of invigorating locations to explore – and perhaps exploit to his heart's content. Instead, the alley opened up into the harsh sunlight of New York streets, and Harry herded himself towards the general direction of The Park. _(hell yeah it deserved to be a proper noun!)_ He strutted with his hips straight on, head tilted thirty degrees upwards, and hair sashayed on one portion of his face, like a massive cat claws dug into his cheek; he was going for casual, incongruous, but with a splice of pizazz, and Harry J. Potter just so happened to be canoodling the right amount of confidence (and faint invigorating tinge of last night's mimosas) to pull it off.

 

He clicked his tongue at an offensively thin woman with golden flush cheeks and a divine figure. She had adorned herself head to toe in red plaid, her skirt cut at the thighs, but the folder tucked under her armpit was a clear statement that she was “business not pleasure, _thankyouverymuch._ ” Red Head Not In My Bed branded him with a harsh yet surprisingly _broad_ hate-stare ( _maybe she does this with most people, not just me_ ) with her laser pointer eyes. He pistol-finger gestured her, cocked and smoking, and she clucked, lifted her nose, and imagined him melting into the side-walk. For a split second, Harry could only envisage her as an old manky cat lady festooned in languid curls of  saggy newspaper.

 

Huh. Weird.

 

“Have a nice day!”

 

He called out to her as she left him in the dust. Harry nodded to himself, and continued to saunter. He acted, for all the world, as if he were engulfed in oodles of precious jewels and untouchable weapons, not with clothes that appeared to be savagely mauled by beasts of unknown origin, or sporting hair unabatedly shredded by monstrous malignant sculptures of _trash_. Harry gave off the odour of banana peel, but this only increased his confidence tenfold, as shown by the flirty wink he gifted to the next smoking hot lady who passed by him. ( _could it be he was still a wee bit drunk?_ )

 

Something in the back of his mind was slamming its head over and over into a wall, muttering “muscle” to itself repeatedly. But, Harry thought that was just one of the oddities _of_ the mind, occasionally it was wont to house abnormal occurrences, to think randomly selected words. He shook his head to the tiniest degree, shooting a mean spirited smile at the next citizen to glare at him ( _okay he **was** just standing in a busy street impeding the flow of traffic, but **leave him alone**_ ). Eyes flashed with danger, and for a few spare seconds Harry was bequeathed the blessed miracle of silence. 

 

It was his _day off_ , the world could pause for a bit. Didn't he _deserve_ to be able to settle himself and dress as if he had evolved past apehood? It was Sunday; the day of _rest_. And in this context, it meant _rest from working_. Which was synonymous with _have fun_. Which simultaneously meant _waste time and faff about_.

 

Harry scuffed the crumbling walkway for a moment with his scuffy shoes ( _borrowed from Mike for this exact purpose, and when would Mike be wanting his shoes back by the way?_ ) before proceeding to power walk. He left the crowds in his fiery wake, feet playing the ground as if it were a fiddle – fast and precariously.

 

Time would only tell where he ended up. But, either way, freedom would be bliss.

 

-o-

 

A strangled bark wafted over the peace of the park, lifting its howl over the ordered majesty of cookie-cutter shrubbery and symmetrical tree plantations. The entirety of this park was a large bowl of a hill, dipping down into a crater with haphazardly placed picnic tables, before lurching up in a steep smile of a mountain. Harry scrambled in a descent likened to a child rolling down the school yard's hill – the end product was the same, he was decorated in an array of leaves, crinkling like the embrace of a newspaper.

 

He brushed himself off, grinning at a gigantic suit of a man who nonchalantly strolled down the path instead of Harry's insane cliff-dive. This man seemed litigious, and Harry, if he were to make a split second judgement by the skin of his yet-to-be-brushed alcoholic teeth, would label him a lawyer. His mouth was certainly shark-like enough judging by the blood thirsty grin he sent to Harry that made him reconsider his health plan.

 

Which was “can't afford a health plan” and “I might be immortal but I don't want to test it and be wrong”.

 

The suit strolled away, and once he was out of sight Harry ensconced himself under a Stark Tower impersonator,  that was actually an oak tree. It resembled a mutated flightless bird, and Harry felt a pang of slightly ironic sympathy hit him in the solar plexus. _Imagine_ _looking like a dying emu_ , he consoled the tree. The world truly was cruel.

 

He settled into the classic meditation pose, knees crossed, hands lifted either side of his head, eyes closed, which was mostly a cover for his magical experiments in this park. It was Sunday, his day off work, so Harry now could enjoy a whole day (or however long it took for him to give up) of magical practice. At this point in the week it felt like his living magic had become bottled up and restless, a slight burn in his chest, playing across his heart and lungs so his breath became short. It was liveable, yet uncomfortable, so he was dreadfully excited for this expulsion of pent up energy. Part of the reason he could continue a passive façade (and mindset along those lines) was due to the management of his magical levels. If left too long Harry would surely become irrational and hyper-emotional, similar to how he had been in his youth (or _more_ youthful days, he was only 21 after all) because of heady magic fluctuations.

 

As always, he began to wandlessly cast the _homenum revelio_ spell, gathering his already partially concentrated magic into his chest before relocating it to the extremities, i.e. Fingertips and toes. His whole body buzzed with euphoria, like a bee hive waking from hibernation ( _do bees hibernate?_ Harry asked himself, quite vexed). Harry hummed, using another tactic to resonate with his magic, which fortuitously coincided with the appearance of meditation (although he was eighty or so percent sure that _actual_ meditation and not _movie_ meditation did not involve humming, but was aware enough to know that not many people _actually_ focussed on others, so his oddly misplaced humming would go unnoticed). He had discovered a few months ago, while experimenting with dance, song, and other forms of expression that could mimic that of a wand (since he had gained a hunch that it was all about the _expression_ of magic and mental links) that singing, and to a lesser degree humming, was a fabulous methodology to extend and strengthen magical strength and longevity. However, he didn't sing currently, as Harry was self conscious of his voice, and realised there was no _urgent need_ to expand his magical capabilities. It was only practice after all, and the day was still young.

 

Or, Harry believed so, until his silently enacted _homenum revelio_ revealed a dangerously scary possibility that may divine a _need_ for his magic. He endured the swooping sensation that belied the presence of several unusual _suspicious_ individuals surrounding his location. A few were hiding in the sparsely placed trees like monkeys, yet most likely perfectly composed if his suppositions over their identities were correct. The suit from earlier was doubling back and circling his position like a vulture to prey. And if Harry focused, one of the lesser known abilities of the spell, he could almost make out a familiar pattern of energy on someone, but it escaped him to who it actually was.

 

His first instinct arrived at his emblematic door in an instant and screamed in a loud, and unbecoming, manner to _run run RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!_ His second, more sane non-PTSD inspired instinct, murmured in sibilant Slytherin hisses that it was best to act as if nothing had happened, as that would be more suspicious and notable, and to behave as if he were simply meditating. Harry halted his humming, knowing it would delude his magic into believing it was about to be released from his chest (therefore causing it to be a liability), and instead forcibly relaxed. The tension drained out of him like sludge down the drain of a shower, slow and languid. In his mind he felt unsure of his actions, but did not possess a great period of time to plot, sketch and plan something else. Playing dumb had worked well in the past, therefore Harry would base his current actions over those already proven to be successful.

 

He “meditated” for approximately fifteen minutes before his burning desire to run came to a head, thus he slowly non-threateningly lifted himself to his feet. Harry silently cast the _homenum revelio_ spell once more, knowing it had been designed with stealth and security in mind as one of its baser Intents (not that he wanted to get into magical theory when he was trying to flee the situation safely) and therefore would most likely not present on any energy scanners. It was a part of magic that Harry adored, that because of baser Intent it would actively work for that Intent and could possess multitudinous proficiencies. One being that the Scary Suits would not realise he was using magic unless they had purposeful instruments to measure magic, and Harry had always been very careful, so he trusted that they hadn't suspected him of that or brought the appropriate measuring instruments. If they even existed in this dimension at all.

 

Or maybe they did. Maybe the jig was up. Maybe he hadn't been careful enough. Or, maybe in this new dimension they had already snuffed out magic, silently and unknown to the public. Maybe he was just a flame to be silenced.

 

Harry languorously strolled out of the park, as if self-indulgent, meandering over to Harlem without a care in the world (other than the fact that inside he was shaking in his boots because he was most likely walking to his death). He absorbed the sun, his magic humming happily in his skin as he continued to use the _homenum revelio_ spell as he went, even if part of him considered it dangerous to use magic when he was under suspicion. His logic followed as such; if they knew he was magic he had already used the spell and they caught it, if they didn't know then they lacked the capacity to measure or recognise magic.

 

A wormy nagging slice of his mind groused about the illogical nature of humans that _would not_ easily follow his logic, and that paranoia was a virtue in dangerous situations.

 

The Mimosa Shaped Part Of Him, otherwise known as Tmspoh, or Tim-Spock, rumbled like Firewhisky in his chest about the tangible absence of mimosas, and the benefits of remedying such a occurrence.

 

Harry brushed both aside as he came across his street and house. He could still feel the suits following him, who would be unnoticeable if not for his magic (and wasn't that a scary thought, to think they could have been following this whole time, and he simply hadn't noticed because he hadn't been using the _homenum revelio_ incantation.) They were scarily silent, eyes most likely sharp and dangerous like serrated weaponry, and he pitied the poor soul who they decided to beleaguer. Which could be interpreted as self-pity, as they were most probably going to bedevil himself. He wondered over how locals would react to their presence, as they were jarring with their slick cleanliness (or he imagined them to be as such) and perfectly ironed respectable apparel.

 

Would Dray attempt to shoot one of them? Dray had always been quick to act, he was hot blooded to his core. Harry didn't truly know him, but he was only a boy, truly. And, Harry couldn't even contemplate a the veritable teen behind bars. Prison broke boys like him. And Harry knew no one would defend Dray if he attacked the suits. People knew their place in Harlem, even if they occasionally resisted. Harry wouldn't even come to his aid, no matter the morality of the situation; he was attempting to stay afloat and keep a low profile.

 

 _Like that's working_ the sardonic Slytherin inspired part of him drawled as one of the suits narrowed in on his location. He had a feeling he was about to be tackled or tasered or imparted with some other act of unnecessary violence, so he decided to jog the rest of the way to his flat. There was safety in normality, after all, and Harry's flat was his normal.

 

He raced up the stairs, the swoops in his gut expanding out into his neck and chest, like mist in his lungs, expanding and tunnelling open new escapes inside himself. It felt like his whole body was pounding. As if he was just one bulging heart. The steps creaked painfully under Mike's shoes, and Harry barely reached his door unharvested as he heard the suits walking sedately up them. They were just behind him. It felt like the walls of his life were closing in on him. Harry had never been claustrophobic, but as he slid into his musky flat he couldn't breathe properly because of the tightness of the architecture. _This house has definitely been working out, so tight_. He fell back against the wall, out of breath, puffed out, because of his impromptu run, but also short of breath because of the incoming panic attack that the suits provided.

 

The door clanged ominously behind the thin partition of his wall. Like metal tusks beating one another. Harry could imagine a slick creamy smooth person wrapping their knuckles on the flaking red of his door. _122_. The hulking beasts knocked once more. Harry levitated himself to his feet, as if his whole body were afloat, his mind resting on a grey cloud of shock.

 

_Is this the last time I see my flat?_

 

He experienced a foreign numbness. As if he had been whitewashed.

 

Harry strolled over to the door, wondering if they would ask for tea or a clean spot to sit. Mike was usually a much more gracious guest, not bothering asking for expected pleasantries. His single kitchen cabinet, which reached out like a dying shelf of coral, was empty of tea. The door knob of the cabinet had broken, and he had to wedge it open with a fork whenever he wanted to fetch food.

 

All he had was diluted apple juice, potato waffles, and slightly stale tap water.

 

A potent poignant uncontrollable bout of humour smashed into him like a freight train. _Hello there, would you like some diluted apple juice? Or perhaps some water sprinkled with brown sugar? Or maybe an uncooked potato waffle?_ Harry truly lived in too much disarray to be harassed by the government, or a spy organisation, or a terrorist group, or a vigilante syndicate, or whoever these suits were. Maybe they were just tenacious salesmen. _Or women_ peeped up an ever conscious Hermione voice, who felt it was most prudent to consider the _gender_ of these possibly dangerous individuals.

 

 _Or women_ , Harry conceded.

 

The door creaked open with a hefty yawn, hinges complaining that his treatment had been too rough earlier, i.e. when he slammed the door closed in a fit of panic. _Play it cool_ Harry decided as his fingers left the knob, and he settled back from the outwardly swinging entranceway. Behind the door frame were two individuals, a plump stout looking woman with mousy hair curled behind her ears, and a troubling looming lamppost of a man with obsidian eyes of doom and destruction. Both wore tightly designed suits, streamlined and fashionable, yet probably flexible enough to participate in a high-speed chase on foot. _Oh golly_ Harry sarcastically cheered, as the woman cleared her throat, an indicator that she was about to speak.

 

He noted that only two of them had arrived at the door, when in actuality there were around twenty suits in a two hundred metre radius. He had no clue where all the people were hiding. Harry supposed that they were attempting to appear hospitable and harmless. _Pity for them_ Harry apologised silently _, I already know their numbers_.

 

Or maybe it was a bluff in a bluff. Maybe they knew that he knew. Maybe they were just playing him. Maybe there were more of them, but undetectable to magic. Maybe this was just a scenario played out again and again, other magical practitioners tricked by their cunning scenarios.

 

“Hello Mr. Evans, may we come inside for a quick chat?”

 

Harry smiled, and nodded agreeably. He knew there was no real choice in that question; they came in for a chat or they killed him, most likely. He just wished to escape with at least a paltry degree of freedom and life. Harry was still unsure about his own immortality, he couldn't truly test it, and was unaware of if being Death's “Master” ( _haha, as if anyone actually thought he had a sway on Death_ ) held any sort of bonuses except for being shipped off into the “Marvel Universe”. Which couldn't really be counted as a bonus.

 

He moved in sync with them, stepping back as they walked forwards inside, as if this were a dance or a fight. In karate one often begins to spar by mirroring the stance of their opponent. This was infinitely similar. The door closed with a gentle slap, and Harry made his way over to the kitchen. He posed the classic host's question, knowing the resounding answer would be negative yet attempting to appear complaisant,

  
“Would you like anything to drink?”

 

As predicted both shook their heads silently, settling on his ratty couch with barely perceptible hesitation. _Bloody snobs_ Harry grinned internally, silently wishing they would ask for a drink so he could palm off his soon-to-expire apple juice. It was really wasting away in his fridge.

 

Harry decided to stand, and leant himself against the kitchen side, facing the two composed suits.

 

“Mr. Evans, I am sure you are very curious as to why we are here and who we are.”

 

The mousy woman said it as if she were certain he was not at all curious. She sounded as if she were addressing a plank of wood, or at least someone with a similar degree of intelligence. Harry realised she was looking straight at his book shelf, and felt his stomach fall out from beneath him when he saw that the titles of his Year 9 textbooks were showing. He was flailing, falling, in that moment. There was a sign drawn around his neck with an itchy yard of twine that stated “ _No Intelligence To Be Found Here_ ”. Only, 'Intelligence' would be misspelt to really sell it.

 

_No Antelligance To Be Found Here._

 

His mental footing quaked beneath him for a moment, but Harry steadied, surmising that the mousy woman had known exactly what she was doing with her diction, tone, and body language. She'd played him, and he'd fallen into her trap. Speculation over the two and their organisation kicked up a notch. He would need to be alert. _Constant vigilance, after all_.

 

Mousy continued her spiel, words falling from her mouth with practiced ease. She may be uncharismatic, but she certainly pertained an uncharacteristic amount of confidence and competence. Lamppost remained silent, instead deigning to investigate the flat with his eyes. Harry recognised the look of deep inspection from long ago, an unrecognisable blur of memory, but he knew it spelled nothing good.

 

“Agent Lambert and I work with the government. It has come to our attention, after a brief stint with a well known entity of New York, that your records are lacking. This is all a very ordinary procedure for those with missing segments of information, it is not unheard of after all. So, all we need to do is ask you some simple questions.”

 

Lambert the Lamppost dissected his literary collection as if he were a dog shredding a slab of meat. Harry felt unusually naked as two strangers uncovered his domestic life, and as Mousy tried to “assure” him with that no nonsense tone he felt decidedly not assured in the slightest. Rather, in his chest his breaths had begun to stick to him, he felt hoarse and dry, as if dipped in an electric vat of nerves, his skin tingling and sparking like electrons (as he had recently learnt in his Year 9 Science textbook).

 

Harry nodded easily, although his whole body felt like revolting against this array of “some simply questions.” Mousy attempted to mirror his casual compliance, with a kind smile of her own, but crashed and burned miserably, only producing a pained grimace that tasted faintly of sulphur. Harry felt sympathy as he imagined being unable to smile like an actual human, and brightened his own. Mousy may, most probably, be a horrible psychopath working for the government, but she was still a human who most likely fretted over the appearance of her scandalously horrendous smile-grimace in the mirror every morning. Even if she were displaying her smile for dubious purposes, Harry was still kind enough allay some of her baser self-esteem issues that were most likely linked to this “smile.”

 

Lamppost blinked slowly and calmly, but did not both smiling. Harry thought he preferred Lamppost to Mousy, simply due to his candour.

 

She resumed her most likely practiced “initiation into the government's testing facility of doom” speech, and Harry had a sudden premonition that he would not like what she had to say,

 

“Of course, it is necessary that you join us at our _government_ based facility, for the safety of everyone, and to better allay these concerns over your details.”

 

Harry felt an uneasy trickle caress his spine, like a long line of sweat dripping down his back. Mousy may have endeavoured to soothe him with emphasis on _government_ , but Harry was not so easily malleable, and took argument to being ensconced away to god knows where. Unease befriended his brain, and he unconsciously took a step back into the kitchen side uncomfortably. Lamppost gave him a small plastic smile, and Harry undertook another tenuous step into the kitchen.

 

He ruminated over what “details” she was thinking of. Was it Harry being magic? Was it his lack of presence for nineteen years before mysteriously appearing? Was it his lack of a medical plan, was this actually just a very strange and beguiling sales pitch? Or, perhaps it was about _Jamie's Café_? Maybe all of this was just connected to something crooked Jamie had done.

 

“Of course, you would most likely wish to see evidence that we are who we say we are, so we have brought our identifications along with us. We wish for this exchange to be as painless as possible, and it would be most helpful if you would simply comply.”

 

Mousy and Lamppost flicked open their identifications in sync, which was unspeakably creepy, and Harry tentatively hedged forward. He was resting on the tips of his toes, the balls of his feet, ready to jump six feet in the air if either one enacted a wrong move upon him. His eyes scanned them, noting the company they resided under ( _S.H.I.E.L.D_ ) and their names, of which he had no way to verify whether they were true or not. Lamppost's true name was Agent Steven Lambert, whilst Mousy's was Agent Silvia Cordons. Their pictures appeared to be from this year, at the bottom of each was a time stamp of 2015. It was said to have been updated in January, so last month, and Harry wondered how often they overhauled these passes.

 

It was not credibility of their identity which spurred Harry to be uneasy. It was the “government” which underlined their words, as he had been familiar with a corrupt “government” in his home dimension, and thus “government” did the opposite of settling him. His skeleton felt righteously uneasy in his skin.

 

But, there was little wiggle room on the matter, so Harry resignedly nodded. He silently prayed his goodbyes to his beloved potato waffle roomies, and followed Mousy and Lamppost out of the apartment with his head bowed low.

 

 _Fingers crossed I get out alive_.


	17. Liars Begone - Part 1

_Liars Begone – 1_

They travelled in a stark black limo with the windows tinted. It was if they were trying to project to the world that they were up to no good or too good for you. It was a silent trip. No one dared breathe, which confused Harry, as he had assumed that Mousy and Lamppost would have been more predisposed to relaxing in their own transport. It was suspicious. In fact, this whole fantasy ride was utter and complete madness.

 

Since _when_ did the government just _politely kidnap_ people?

 

Huh?

 

Harry let his head fall back against the neck rest of his seat. This car was obscenely comfortable, and Harry was beginning to feel fattened up and ready for consumption due to its gluttonous ability to engulf him into the cushions. Maybe he would just fall asleep here and never wake up. Maybe that was their grandmaster diabolical scheme.

 

The two gargoyles, facsimiles of humans, had abandoned the pretence of smiling or speaking once Harry had consented to being kidnapped. It seemed their purpose was complete, and like all highly sophisticated AI-based robots (eerily similar to what Harry had read about in his Year 9 science book) once the pain of duty had been assuaged they devolved to their natural state. It was almost eerie that they breathed at all, seeing as how dead they appeared from a superficial standpoint.

 

“Well, this is fun.”

 

Harry murmured into his hands. He had been given the middle seat, and was uncomfortably pressed between the two adult bodies. He was chillingly and cruelly reminded of the bitter-sweet car trip to a sharp black spiky rock/island in the middle of the sea, pressed between Dudley's feet and the car door. There had been impressions of the car door upon his whole side, like macabre slashes that faded with time. The sweaty heat of two bodies surrounding him made bugs crawl under his skin, but Harry simply closed his eyes and breathed deeply, magic stirring in his chest at the action, linking it to his pseudo-meditation.

 

Mousy glanced at him suspiciously for a moment, as if he had threatened to throw a rock at her or let loose a string of arson attacks against innocent children. There was a degree of disbelief, but also consideration. Lamppost pretended that Harry was simply a piece of luggage, and Harry could respect that amalgamation of professionalism. He knew what it was like to act dissimilar to reality for his job, as shown by his tolerance for perverse hands caressing him on the daily at _Jamie's Café._

 

Harry may have ventured a stare at the window at any other point in time, but resisted due to the intense desire to not seem like a child. He was fine. Normal people were okay with weirdly stuffy, slow, long lived, snail crawling, car trips. Normal people just, well, sat back and let the car take them places.

 

Relief and despair flooded him when the car halted with an abrupt shiver of its engine. Like a long plume of smoke dissipating in the air. He was glad to be out of the muggy soupy air of the sleek limo, but simultaneously terrified that he was about to be harvested for his organs – after all, Harry was a little attached to them.

 

Mousy undid the hatch of the door, clicking it open. Lamppost pinched Harry on the shoulder _(ow!),_ and silently gestured for him to follow them out. They all tumbled out of the door, resembling a twelve year old Harry falling from a fireplace, although Mousy and Lamppost fell with a more dignified government-assigned air. As if they had signed a few important documents before falling flat on their arses.

 

“We have arrived.”

 

Mousy declared unnecessarily in a banal tone, It appeared to be her solemn yet irrefutably dull duty to announce it every time they arrived at the _S.H.I.E.L.D._ Headquarters. Whatever pays the bills, honey, whatever pays the bills...

 

Harry took in the building with wide eyes.

 

Going by the large slate grey swathes of cement that made up this almighty magnificent beast of a building, Harry would say that he was fucked. Only the government or a terrorist organisation could afford such a place, and Mousy was currently leading _him_ up to the massive big-enough-to-eat-a-rhino glass double doors of this malignant crime against nature. How many cement trees had to be cut down for this humongous giant? How many glass babies were killed in the making of this headquarters?

 

( _this is what I wanted, Stark Inc._ )

 

-o-

 

Time passed in a blur. It flashed by in still images. They burned into his irises, like molten suns pressed bold faced against his skin.

 

_Mousy's fingers latched onto his sleeve, leading him forward through the double doors._

_Eyes fluttering as fluorescent poles of blinding light assaulted his senses._

_Passing the receptionist's desk, the room more sparse than Stark Tower yet lined with more money, the walls filled with cash; the expensive paint and bullet-proof wood and dazzling technological advances. A private oasis of danger._

_Telepathically silently asking Lamppost if he would knock him out, because **why am I going willingly?**_

_Gently shepherded forward into a cylindrical room as wide as his bathroom._

One slim white desk. One chair. Harry sat, staring endlessly at the curve that never ceased, the line that never broke. His eyes ran marathons through the room. He imagined to the outside world he would appear to be mad – the whites of his eyes fervent and cultist, always flickering and flashing. His back began to ache from posing on this hard-backed seat like a model in a chair magazine. Harry longed to flump forward, to slouch and slump as if his spine had been tasered into slick jelly. It would be a relief. But he resisted.

 

 _Resist_ Harry assured himself. _Resist_ he spoke it like a mantra. _Resist_ he knew this game well.

 

He knew how to win.

 

Harry had secrets to hide, and he _would_ resist honesty being stolen from him.

 

Two of these “government agents” soon entered the room through a single tattered door. They were nameless, truly, only slates of grey. Harry searched their eyes for humanity but came up empty. A frisson of worry stampeded his spine; he almost missed Mousy and Lamppost. At least they were more than autonomous robots.

 

They worked on him like clockwork. Slow and measured. Businesslike and efficacious. Soon the screws would come loose, and oil and brain matter would spill from every orifice left unsullied.

 

First, they introduced themselves in a very dry and methodical manner. It was almost a game to try and analyse their voices for any semblance of tone. Harry would not remember their names, only that each began with the obligatory “agent”.

 

Second, they removed their shaded lenses, one wouldn't call them sunglasses for they lacked the pragmatic nature of sunglasses. These two heartless bodies didn't wear them for the cool factor or as protection from the sun. The tinted glasses existed for the pure purpose of regulation, following a rule to its letter. Harry presumed that the removal of eye wear leant trust in the “suspect”, but this fell flat. He had the sneaking suspicion that these agents expected him to resist and therefore did not overly exert themselves in gaining his trust. _Well, they'd be right about the resistance_.

 

Third, they fell into their roles. Agent One, who beheld no defining characteristics, a strange mannequin blob of officious stipulations, rolled out a carpet of words at Harry's feet. They, for Harry could not be sure of their gender or race or of any identity because surely Agent One did not belong to the human classification, very neatly and laconically layed out the ground rules; Agent One was playing Bad Cop for this rendition of a corny cop flick and Agent Two was playing Good Cop. Agent Two existed just as generic and cookie cutter as Agent One. Harry wondered, absently, if he would be able to accurately describe them in a police line-up. They had kidnapped him after all, or at least aided and abetted. He further pondered over their culpability as working for the government, or the state, or whatever evil organisation they masqueraded under.

 

 _Even their accents are clearly prescribed_ , Harry mused.

 

Agent Two began with a clearing of their throat, subtle and coffee flavoured, before they leant over the desk in a non-domineering fashion, they were an awning to fulfil Harry's love of shade. This was no act of alpha, this was an act of protection.

 

Agent Two said, voice smooth like butter, “Mr. Evans, I am sure, as a very reasonable citizen, that you, just like us, would like to wrap this up as soon as possible. I am sure you have many people out there who you would like to return to... and if you made this just as easy as possible, it would be best for everyone.”

 

Agent One butted in. Harry thought they must be good friends, as to have made such strides in acting, their flow and cadence perfection. It must require a great deal of trust and reliance. He found humour in imagining a scene of these two soulless suits playing out trust exercises to the music of “God Save The Queen”, or whatever the government listened to in America ( _I really ought to try immerse myself in this culture or I'll get dimensionally deported_ ).

 

“ _I_ have been led to believe you have those you trust outside, also. It _would_ be so much easier if no one needed to _get hurt_.”

 

Harry, in that moment, realised Agent One's character was kind of a dick.

 

Agent One, as if in affirmation to Harry's remark on their character, smirked like Draco Malfoy taking a juicy bite of an apple. Supercilious much?

 

Agent Two parried with a hefty sympathetic sigh, chastising Agent One in a fit of cinematic excellence that Harry would only further respect the suit for, “Now, Agent Munder, let's remember our place. Sorry about that Mr. Evans, I'm sure you understand, we're all a bit stressed. I'm sure you can relate, working in a diner is no treat, is it?”

 

Agent Two smiled kindly. _It truly is very believable_ Harry eyed the agent suspiciously. So far he hadn't needed to say anything, but, who was to say when that would change?

 

With the reference to his outside life Harry was suddenly struck by the thought of Mike, and Jordan, and Jamie. The dark unfeigned shine to Agent One's eyes gained gravity in that split second weighing of truth. This wasn't just him. He wasn't a little boy in a cupboard with no true links to outer life, it wasn't Hogwarts where the teachers had at least a reasonable responsibility of care. Although hard to swallow, he _did_ recognise that he was an adult. These friends were freely given, freely chosen, of no link to this investigation or his previous life. _Harry_ had inserted them into this mess, they held no magic or skills other than sexual innuendo, panic attacks, and drug smuggling, respectively.

 

Agent One brought them back on track, back to the script,

 

“Dear, dear, Mr. Evans, it would seem by that expression on your face that you haven't considered all those people you affect?” Agent One cracked their knuckles, leaning over the desk. Agent Two waded back to the wall, leant their body against it with arms crossed. Agent One continued, “We have all we need, Evans No Name. Our people have tracked you to where you came from, do you not think we have eyes everywhere? No, this is just _regulation_ , this is just the dotting of 'i's and crossing of 't's. Explain yourself now, and, well, maybe its a little easier for you and those dependant on you.”

 

Harry kept his back sturdy in his chair. He watched, alert, as Agent One swept around the room, graceful and minacious. The suit's aura of pure animalism swirled in the air, sparking with magical undercurrents. All the hairs on Harry's body stood up on end. The indefinite curve of this maddening room constricted around his body. The words winded him sharply, swiftly gutting him. Dizziness sauntered around in the hollow chambers of his mind, alight and incited.

 

He thought of Mike's face of heartbreak, his confusion. He saw his friend lost, at the bottom of a bottle, paranoia usurping newly gained confidence from its throne. A large swelling tumour settled in Harry's throat, his mouth impossibly parched, lips heinously cracked. The world swayed around him, in tune with Agent One's maleficent silent curdling melody. He considered Jamie, her shop closed down, the government opening its wide and treacherous wings to silence her. Harry considered all of those alcoholics out on the streets, the parties would move on, but Jamie, oh horrendously inappropriate and unsettling Jamie, where would she be? What crimes would follow her? Jordan, insignificant yet wholly stable. His crystal eyed nemesis would flounder. He would be suspect. What if the government linked him to the crimes he had indisputably committed? What if Harry had to shoulder that guilt for the rest of his life, carrying around on his back like a mangled foetus of what could have been, of Jordan in prison, cold and apathetic, all the good from him drawn away by imprisonment?

 

His neat little square of wonder, his life without baggage, would dig itself from beneath him. Harry would collapse and choke.

 

Agent Two swept forward, kneeling down beside Harry at a respectable distance, as Harry slowly felt his mind melting down into frightening grey,

 

“Hey, Harry, may I call you Harry?”

 

Harry flickered his eyes to the knelt being beside him. The suit was crumpled at the knees. The immaculate nature of this room would surely swallow up this suit, just like any dust. He envisaged Agent Two righting itself, standing skyward like a reaching tower, only to find cut-outs around their knees in their pristine apparel due to the ravenous nature of this cleanliness, this room's cleanfreak hunger. He witnessed an elegant black hand rest on the table, open to be held if Harry submitted to this perverse interrogation.

 

He nodded minutely. Let them call him Harry. Let them do whatever they wished. _Resist_ Harry reaffirmed _but fool_. If they believed him susceptible and scared (although he _was_ flinchingly horrified for Mike's possible fate, perhaps he was not as scared as they had anticipated) then they would go easier. Let them underestimate.

 

“Harry then. Harry, it’s _okay_. No one needs to get hurt for this. You _have_ the solution. Just, just tell us what you know. Just let us know what we need to know.”

 

Harry kept his lips sealed shut.

 

Agent One slammed forward. The momentum stirred up dust and the table creaked as it was shifted forward on its metal brakes. Two massive threatening hands perilously banged down onto the flat surface of the spotless top. Hot breaths slapped against Harry's cheeks as Agent One seethed out their words, gritted and gristly,

 

“ _Michael Ba Tu. Jordan Fergu. Jasmine Ohio._ Should I _continue_ , Mr Evans?”

 

Harry kept his eyes open. _Resist. Resist_.

 

The feel of scolding moisture on his face sent echoes of fear through him, like old shocks, like psychosomatic aches from the war. He remembered hiding in shadows from Death Eaters, rivers of blood flowing down his limbs, hot and gushing and uncontrolled, Ron's breath hot and panicked in his ear. As realisation set in.

 

_(“Harry, Harry, we might not, mate, we might not make it out, but **know** that I-, truly, Harry. Come on, keep going, we've got this Harry, hey, we're Griffindors! Are we not?”_

_“Ron, I d-don't want to die. I'm getting cold. The blood, it-”_

_“No, mate, we're getting out of this.”_

_“Ron, I-”_

_“I've got you. Be quiet, though, we've got Death Munchers up our arses.”_

_“Ron, I really, you're my best mate, really-”_

_“Shut up Harry, I love ya too, but really, not the time... Oh, merlin's saggy ballsack, here they come!”)_

 

The screeching whine as the car wouldn't start. The fear of the engine. Of the sound. Of being found. The coursing adrenalin in their Griffindor veins.

 

 _Resist_. He had thought it then. He had not surrendered. He had persevered. _Resist_. Even with Death Eaters on their tail, Voldemort coming up the rear, old _imperioed_   Order members with lights screaming from their shaking wooden quivers of flesh. Their wands, shaking with their _resistance_.

 

 _You're our last hope Harry_. Hermione's voice, soft and steady in his head. Her voice overpowered Agent One's musky drawl. Harry's hand had steadied. His heart had thundered. And this moment was liveable, for he had already lived it. This fear was old news, old news of no substance.

 

His world settled. He soldiered back to resistance.

 

Agent One hashed out each name as if gnawing at their truths. They were an agent of truth, whether extracted harmlessly or not. “ _Natalie Romanova. Lotus McGregor._ Do you have enough lives on your hands to start _talking_?”

 

Harry resisted movement. The entirety of his spine morphed into metal. He was a statue, an emblem of attrition, of withstanding the biting winds and howling wails yet not shifting, not folding in two. They were nothing against his metallic exterior. A baby's breath, nothing more. Battle Harry against a dragon and he would prevail, no doubt about it. The fire would burn and burn, but eventually the dragon would tire, its gumption loosen, and Harry, in his castle of siege, would outlast. The fire would burn out. Harry would revive himself, the victor in this battle.

 

Agent Two returned to their place beside him, knelt on the floor. They linked their hand with Harry's, the touch a jolt of sweet honeyed warmth. Their voice sounded earnest and trusting in his ear, so alike Ginny's that Harry could have wept,

 

“Harry, I want to help you. I've read up on you. You're a good guy, never did anyone a spot of bad. But, we _need_ to know who you are... Its important, Harry, trust me.”

 

Agent One battered him down again, thundering in with all the fury of a righteous warrior, as if Harry had truly committed an abysmal crime, “Agent Sunders, enough of that wishy washy _bullshit_ , hm. _This_ man needs no sympathy. He is an enemy of the state. Have you not considered that he is a terrorist? A national liability? From the outside he is clean, but inside, truly, this maggot is dark and rotten. Consider the lives lost to terrorism, consider the lives lost to secrets. If we were out in the open, the world would be such a better place. Imagine those innocents, their lives destroyed because of _certain people_ keeping their lives in silhouettes. Who are you, Mr Evans? Are you the type of man to enjoy people's suffering? Are you the type of man to sit there and _say nothing_ while your crimes build up? I didn't take you for a _coward_ , Evans, certainly a criminal but not a _coward_!”

 

Harry itched to speak, to combat every single piece of ad homenum, every twisted lie. He wished to answer every question, to shout _I am a good man, I would never enjoy suffering, I would never sit here whilst you slander me and ruin my name!_ It burned, this need to correct, to prove that he was more than the drivel Agent One spouted. He wanted to admit himself, he wanted to release himself from the strain of secrecy, to say he had played no part in this horror show. To say he was nothing like those with secrets, he was an open book, you could read him and see his truthful honour and nobility. You could smell his love for the world, his wish to protect the weak, to save. He wanted to explain why he lacked an identity, why the life of Harry J. Evans had begun at nineteen instead of in the womb, why the rot was not his soul but the circumstance he had surrendered to.

 

Agent Two's grip was so soft against his wrist. Agent One's stare so hostile and piercing, as if judging him for every mistake Harry had ever partaken in. He desperately desired to spare Mike and Jamie and Jordan from his issues, to shelter their lives, to save _save save save_...

 

But.

 

 _Resist_.

 

It continued to cycle like that for an innumerable amount of time. Agent One and Two circled him like vultures around their dying meal, talons sharp and eyes beady. He was flayed raw with their words, a juggling act of compassion and passionate fury. Agent Two would hold Harry as Agent One split him in two, whisper hushed tender promises in Harry's ear. _Just tell me. Just let us know_. Agent One ransacked the air, spat at him, brutalised his words as if they were the blades that they wished to cut Harry open with. _Have you no shame? Just tell me for fucks sake!_

 

For Harry time ceased. It swept away. The world was a dance of words, of meaningless diction. They shot him with purpose; _tell us tell us tell us_. These words were like bullets in his spine, debilitating, painful, life changing. They wished to know why Harry Evans existed. They wanted to know how. They desperately longed for him to spill his guts, to separate fraudulence from candour. Harry was a freelance con artist, his silence a game of omission, of twisted attrition. His body was the siege, the castle. Their words catapulted over his walls, shattered the bricks, but beneath was a mind of cold iron. He held fast and safe. He held no fear for their prison sentences, for their threats, for his friends.

 

His friends were no ignorant children. He remembered that as they detailed every possibility for Mike and his gentle smile. He remembered that Mike had already lived a war, his demon had inhabited the same house as him for two years. Genine was a vile ghoul who still walked the hallowed halls of Michael's heart; she lived on. But Mike lived on also.

 

Jordan was a criminal, a man who had trounced through luscious gardens of artillery and shark smiles all too many times. He swam in waterfalls of drugs and danger. As for jail, well, did he truly not deserve to pay for his crimes?

 

Jamie, or Jasmine as they had revealed her true name to be, held deep wells of inner strength. She ran a profitable business in inner city Harlem, on a street known for monthly mortalities. If anyone knew the dangers of the world it was Jamie, who _was_ a peril that mothers warned their children from before bed.

 

Why would it be _Harry_ who protected them in the first place? All Harry knew were a few useless spells. Sure, he pertained some self defence that had shown success against Jordan and other thugs, but he was no superhero. He was just a lost boy with magic. Magic that barely yielded much of an advantage. All he knew was _homenum revelio_ , _lumos_ , _nec infans_ , and a flickering to-be-mastered version of _protego_. Wandless magic was _hard_ and Harry only had Sundays off, with other projects to be completed. He was basically a muggle, what good could he do?

 

Once he had accepted his helplessness, resistance flowed easily. His deference and reticence seemed never-ending to those poor two agents. Panic definitely hadn't helped in the beginning of this investigation, but he had luckily overcome that.

 

The floodgates opened and he recognised the irrationality of some of Agent One and Two's promises. One of Agent One's consistent insistences was that they already had evidence. It meant that Harry confessing would be the only thing to shorten his sentence, that it was in Harry's hands, the weight was on his shoulders. But... If they did, why bother interrogate Harry in the first place? The government certainly didn't _care_ for Harry, why would they? So, why try to shorten his sentence? And what evidence, truly, could link Harry to terrorism or identity theft? Harry hadn't _done_ it. He'd either been framed, or, the most likely of the two, Agent One was lying out of his arse.


	18. Liars Begone - Part 2

_Liars Begone – 2_

After the many attempts of battering down his defences bore no fruit, the agents left. Harry was abandoned in the timeless silence of this pale room. It was an arena, truly, that spun around him forever. He eventually found a good spot on the table to look at, that wasn't so dreadfully dizzying. His back unwound, slouching forward as hours turned into days, and his mind fell into monotony. He realised how boring it was to be interrogated; time lapsed into a strange half-life. Reality passed through his fingers like the sands of time, without touch or emotion.

 

Just sublime elegance.

 

Hunger crept up on him out of the shadows in this grey half existence, but he hardly felt it. Boredom had melted his brain, most definitely. The haze was in charge now. Harry likened it to a survival mechanism, such as when one experiences too much pain and blacks out. He was the awake unconscious. He was living on a track with no wheels. He was a whirring without sound. The humming remained, persisted, but there were no words for this feeling – only the gaps. It was as if actions were devoid of thought, the world was in abstract. Instead of Harry sitting in a chair in this room, there was simply a person in a while cylinder, but he knew not who that person was nor why they were there. It was just a person. Unflappable. Unshifted. Unseen.

 

His breath was even, and his face was serene. But, in truth, there was nothing of note about this day. The world was a large slip of blankness. He was but a partition, a break in the seams, a small chip in reality, a blip overlooked. The silence had absorbed into his brain, soaked through the sponge, and he was nothing but flesh and spitting neurons.

 

“Mr. Evans we've decided to try a little something else.”

 

He had hardly recognised it when a new batch of agents entered the interrogation room. Harry didn't know how long it had been. His throat burned in dehydration, and his stomach clenched down like a clamp, tight and frenzied. It felt like he hadn't slept in so long. And Harry, with his irregular sleeping and eating patterns, knew that meant he had been in this room for at least a day, maybe two. Otherwise he wouldn't have noticed, because losing sleep was normal. How long had it really been?

 

Who could tell?

 

There were three agents; Eeny, Meeny, and Miny. Eeny was plump, stout, and short, the type of person you could use as a battering ram if need be. Harry imagined slamming their head against that damned door of the interrogation room. Eeny had a weirdly twisted smile, as if someone had sewed their mouth on wrong.

 

Meeny existed to be the opposite of Eeny. Where Eeny was straining the buttons of their sleek custom-built suit, Meeny's suit fabric slipped downwards into the concave of their torso, Meeny bubbled with buoyancy on the fringes. Meeny chirruped about with energy, like a bird on cocaine, eyes dilated and hair set alight with energy and tumultuous euphoria.

 

Miny loomed over everyone, heads taller than the door, a freak of nature. Harry imagined that Miny could pick Eeny up as a battering ram, and Meeny would shout positive affirmations, congratulations, and encouragements as Miny slammed the porky agent against the door.

 

The last was Mo. Mo lacked the title of “agent”. Mo wore a generic bleached lab coat, with all the buttons undone, so it hung over her skin tight sweater and skinny jeans like a veil. Mo appeared to have just left college or whatever baby genius factory the government used in this dimension. Her skin was soft and creamy, smooth, with smatterings of Weasley freckles that caused Harry's gut to complain in something other than hunger.

 

He missed them, and she was painfully Ginnyish. He could imagine Ginny wrapping an arm around Mo's waist and revealing that this was her long lost squib half-sister. Mrs. Weasley would run into the room, pinching Mo's cheeks and gushing over how glad she was to have found a new relative. That would of course be after his wife sobbed at him for cheating on her and the marriage, and then heartbreakingly took Harry back, only to realise her husband was as queer as designer jeans. And after Mrs. Weasley tutted in that achingly maternal way, and gave Harry a slice of apple pie, her smile slightly disappointed, but Harry was her son and all her children make mistakes sometimes.

 

A vision assaulted him, of Ginny, in his apartment, weeping bitter-sweet tears, of Mr. Muscle there, looming over them both like an oblique shadow.

 

( _I'm not gay, remember_ Harry half-heartedly protested, weak from starvation and sense deprivation. His heart wasn't really in it today.)

 

As Mo began to set up the machines, Harry thought that he may never see Agent One or Two ever again. They would have entered his life for only a few small moments, to leave it hours later.

 

( _and then also leave me to starve and fret in painful silence_ )

 

“Polygraph, Mr. Evans, old school yet effective.” Eeny sneered, as if Harry were the objective symbol of a hate crime. A proverbial _screw you hate_ as Mo continued to faff about, shifting around wires and humming lightly under her breath. Her voice was smooth, but she didn't say anything, likely just there to work the machine.

 

He felt sparks of abject horror, sharp and serrated, in his chest. His breath floundered as the agents gathered about; Meeny awkwardly stood by the door, Miny loomed up at the edge of this corner-less abyss of a room, in resemblance to Lamppost, Mo yanked at a finicky wire that resisted her, and Eeny had dragged their presence as close to Harry as humanly possible for the effects of intimidation. _This is really happening_ Harry panicked silently, as Mo's warm hands moulded him like a doll, moving his hands this way and that, attaching a suffocating tentacle of a blood pressure meter around his bicep with emotionless medical precision. She strapped him into the chair until he couldn't breathe. Harry was already sweating. In his head he was hysterically laughing because he wondered if his fear would mess up their test.

 

Mo settled down beside the papers of the polygraph, all her actions indicating she would be reading the truth from the lies. Eeny settled down right beside Harry, looking for all the world as if they had wished they'd brought a chair. Miny resumed their steady silence, fitting the stereotype of their height. Meeny leant on their hip with a clipboard, shuffling, appearing quite out of place. Harry felt a bout of sympathy, wondering if it was their first day and they'd been saddled with The Cursed Harry Potter.

 

(“ _I swear, Harry, the more I hear about your family the more I think the Potter name is a menace,” ruefully admitted Hermione with a cheeky smile._

_Harry replied, his words dripping into puddles of sarcasm, “I swear, Ms. Granger, I have absolutely **no idea** what you could mean. I have the **best luck** in the world.”_)

 

Mo broke the silence with a dainty cough. Her fingers altered the dials. She flickered her eyes over to the three grave agents before swivelling her brown orbs to Harry,

 

“Erm, please turn to face forwards Mr. Evans.”

 

Harry faced forward, staring straight at Miny who was giving him the impression of a serial killer with eyes as dark as midnight. Harry slid down in his seat, hoping to melt into the floor. He was all for _resistance_ but Miny's death eyes held a certain degree of terrifying credence that Harry would not ignore. He valued life, after all, which oscillated on incredulous irony considering he held the title of Death's Master. If logic played any part whatsoever in his life, it would stand to reason that he would feel drawn to Miny, instead it was quite the opposite. Miny screamed _death_ and Harry screamed _get away from me murderer_.

 

A few moments passed like nails screeching on a chalk board. He heard Meeny from out of his peripheral, their voice young and timid,

 

“Mr. Evans let's begin!”

 

The enthusiasm and octave gave everyone in a five foot radius a wince.

 

Mo cleaned her throat again, maybe she had a cold, and perfunctorily stated for the room,

 

“Base line questions.”

 

Eeny appeared familiar with the process and rattled off a few “generic” questions. The look on their face gave Harry the impression that they were itching for his secrets. _Can't a man get some privacy as a kidnapped hostage in a government funded operation_ Harry groused sardonically to himself as panic began to charge, hot and furious, in his chest.

 

“City of residence?”

 

“...Harlem.”

 

“Occupation?”

 

“Waitress.”

 

Eeny laughed slightly, and Harry felt himself melt into a puddle of embarrassed goo. _Damn you Jamie!_

 

“Current president?”

 

Harry shifted slightly,

 

“Erm...”

 

Eeny's eyes brightened with mirth.

 

“Current date?”

 

Harry wasn't totally sure of the date, since he wasn't aware of the duration of his confinement. He guessed, hoping that this would skew the results.

 

“Twenty third of February.”  


None of the resident agents of the interrogation room gave any tells to whether or not Harry was correct. Mo said softly,

 

“Erm, unsure.”

 

Meeny nodded exuberantly, a ray of sunshine over this desolate excuse of a room. Harry imagined the walls collapsing in on themselves, sagging with their own extreme weight, and crushing that smirk off of Eeny's ugly face. Meeny raced forward, with their clipboard, looking exorbitantly excited for the chance to question Harry. Eeny gave Meeny a long hard look, as if to say _pull yourself together agent_. Meeny's smile dimmed slightly, and their hand brushed over the first page of questions.

 

Harry noticed the disheartening amount of pages and felt his mood plummet.

 

“Is your real name Harry Evans?”

 

 _Surely I can slow my heartbeat_ , Harry Potter thought to himself as each looked at him expectantly. If he could stop a pregnancy with his magic he could surely do the same with his heart. _Surely_ he fretted, as he began to panic. It didn't matter that customarily it took almost ten Sundays to perfect a spell and that he had never learnt the original incantation for the Heart Control Curse. _It doesn't matter, I can do it_ Harry assured himself desperately.

 

The thrum of magic in his veins jumped at the challenge, as if sentient enough to hear his pleas. The lights flickered in the room. Miny glanced at the ceiling light with nervous energy. Eeny eyed Harry suspiciously. Meeny watched intently for shades of deceit. Mo was out of Harry's eye-line, but he assumed she was busy with the polygraph. Harry focused, remembering hours of training in this exact skill, of summoning his magic abruptly. His arms strapped against the limbs of the chair loosened like soggy spaghetti, and a massive root of a roar sprung up in his chest, flavoured mystical and electrically magic. He could taste the sweet release of magic on his tongue as he compelled it, shaping it inside of himself, the thrumming spitting in the air in barely controlled reverie. _Calm heart. Normal heart. Calm heart. Normal heart._

 

He repeated the mantra as he spoke,

 

“Yes.”

 

Mo was about to speak, he felt it in the air. Magically singed this was the moment of truth. Was Harry going to be put away for life? Was Mike going to be punished for his wrongdoings or grieve due to Harry's unfortunate demise? Would Harry be used as a magical missile, for the intent of all evil and good and anything in between? Would Jordan miss him when he's smuggled away by the pseudo government?

 

“True.”

 

She whispered, her voice carrying in the room. Steady and still.

 

Harry felt his arms relax, his chest slumping in its constraints. _They've got nothing on me_ he grinned internally as Meeny readied the next question.

 

 _Resist_ Harry reiterated, success colouring him golden and vindicated. He could taste freedom. He could really get out of here. He could really get past _S.H.I.E.L.D._ and return home to the smell of loving potato waffles and the warm embrace of his rattled skeleton of a rusted bed frame. He could call Mike and tell him, honestly, that Harry was _okay_.

 

 _Success_ he beamed inside his head. Never had the escape from danger felt this good.

 

-0o0o0-

 

Jordan spied the marks on his wrists from being tied to a chair for days on end; he noted as if stating objective fact, “Kinky.”

 

Harry stared at him for a long moment, tired out of his mind, desperate for some sleepy times. He had stumbled home after being dropped off in one of the creepy _S.H.I.E.L.D._ limos outside his apartment, having been interrogated for indefinite hours. Agent Lamppost had smirked as Harry was tossed into the dirt like garbage, a frail skeleton looking cat had meowed at him in pity before going back to its rotting fish carcass. Harry had envied the cat, slightly, as he moaned in pain and clambered up the endless rows of stairs to his hall. He fumbled with his pocket, attempting to locate his door key, whilst Jordan spoke. He swayed slightly on his feet, and would have been uplifted by a faint breeze. Jordan's eyes narrowed in unwanted concern, he grumbled,

 

“You 'right Evans?”

 

Harry blinked listlessly, feeling unhooked from reality, as if his head were floating high in the air. He had gone through all the stages of fatigue; _a little tired, tired, exhausted, desperate for sleep, overtired,_ and had reached the final stage _acceptance_. He stumbled towards his door, hands shaking with utter exhaustion as he tried to jam the key into the lock. Jordan stepped up behind him and Harry hit him with a useless ragdoll hand across the face, as if he had hit him with a large wet slug or dropped a bowl of soggy spaghetti on his person. Jordan snatched his wrist from the air and made motions to feel his pulse, it was going mad under Harry's skin. His heartbeat pounded a million a minute. He leant forward, so close his stubble scraped Harry's neck, and inquired concernedly,

 

“Evans, what did they do to you? Where did they take you?”

 

Harry slurred, not really in the mood for further interrogation and not entirely sure about the specifics of where he had been or, for that matter, where he _currently_ was,

 

“Tired...”

 

Jordan looked very hesitant to help his neighbour, even their close proximity making his “must not help anyone” alarm blare loudly in his skull. He eventually rationalised that a deceased Evans meant no more teasing, and he hadn't truly been able to taunt Harry about sex with Mike yet, thus he stole Harry's key and slotted it roughly into the door. Harry fought, but he was a child against the grand ocean, and Jordan simply yanked him over his shoulder bridal style. Harry's body went limp after a few moments, too sleep deprived to fight any longer. Jordan dropped Harry onto the waitress' couch, and peered around the flat; he had never entered Evans' flat before after all, it was pretty underwhelming. Harry twisted about on the couch, most likely going through kidnapper's shock or something along those lines. He wasn't exactly cognizant enough to consider his medical health. Jordan loomed over him and poked him in the shoulder. He, after all, lacked all medical training other than how to prolong a drug fuelled existence.

 

“Wake up! Tell me what the fuck happened,” He shouted, devoid of sympathy.

 

Harry blinked wearily, swiping a liquid paw at Jordan's cheek as the other man's eyes twinkled sadistically. He murmured into the couch's skin, “Euhh... shields and... limos... muscle... yum yum....”

 

Jordan decided that his neighbour had clearly been driven 'round the bend. He shook his head and evacuated the apartment, slamming the door behind him carelessly. Harry writhed around on the couch until he was comfortable and let himself fall unconscious.

0o0o0

 

Hot pokers of molten fire awoke Harry from his restless slumber. His cheek was completely submerged in an ocean of drool, but he didn't focus on that, rather his mind was consumed by the burning pain that seeped into every inch of his body. He writhed deliriously, moaning in agony, longing for a glass of water or a cold flannel for his feverish skin, to tame the fire. Harry missed having a mother, but realised the closest he had ever had to that was Ginny, and she involved a certain amount of sexual maintenance that would be rather taboo for a mother to expect. He cried into his bottomless pit of drool, the burning intensifying. Harry tried to stand so that he could stumble to the bathroom for a blissfully chilled shower, but found he couldn't move. He was locked into this state of inability, incapacitated by this devil's flush. All his bones shifted painfully under his skin, he fell off the couch with a cruel crack, meeting the wooden floor in a very undesired way. He could hear his heart throbbing in his ears, loud and distracting. He tried to cup hands over his ears to block out the sound but all he succeeded in doing was slapping himself very feebly in the face – like a moron. Wicked. The pain centred him somewhat for a split second, and he managed to clamber back up the deadly drop of his couch, huddling around himself in the foetal position and trying futilely to breathe slowly.

 

The night continued on like that. The pains and consistent drumming of his heart followed him into his nightmares and puddles of vexing dreams. He dreamt of long spires of cement, of piles of bricks toppling down, of spitting fires and floods of water and waste. Ruby eyes glittered down at him from above. He tasted fire-whiskey, the absence of youth, hot sex in his mouth – it tasted like Ginny, and a blonde man who had lost his name at sea. The ocean rose up, in a merciless tide that swept him under. His breath caught in the pain that throbbed back, flowing and ebbing, back and forth, in a metronome of passionate slumber. His whole world became oneiric, and he wondered if reality had every existed in the first place. He could smell embers in his tongue. He thought he saw a dark figure cackle in his face; it could have been Voldemort, it could have been Death, perhaps it was Harry he saw, shrouded in a black cloak. Perhaps this was not a fever dream, but a destiny he sought. A mind swathed in torturous confusion, he felt as if he were going to burn up into a crisp all night long, an immaculately cooked potato waffle for his own consumption. He wondered what he would do if he ever spontaneously combusted into a donut; _I would eat myself, surely?_ And what was the mouth of a donut, was it not the hole in the centre? He imagined himself as a donut, crumbled down into flaking pieces of pastry, futilely forever endlessly devouring himself and his chocolate soul.

 

Through the wall he could hear Jordan and his latest pick-up from the club. It wasn't beer tonight. His neighbour had sated himself with the commodity of flesh, instead. A worthy filling for an empty centre. Everyone was turning into a donut before his eyes. This was the true madness – insanity gripped him, graceful and slippery, the words for it sliding off his tongue like cool liquid, absorbed into his skin. Through the film of fever he felt the sounds transform into the lengthy spectres of demons and devils stretched out against his walls – Jordan his oily skin became a black backdrop, the scene set of an art film, intangible and forever questioning. The red sheen of his door became a chamber of blood. His eyes blinked out with glittering blackness and Harry finally surrendered into a dreamless sleep, the weaving digressive nightmares fading as his heartbeat slowed slightly.

 

0o0o0

 

When he awoke, his first clarity cleansed thought would be of donuts, and where he might be able to appropriate one.

 

Harry arched up like a cat, joints cracking as he did so. He grimaced, knowing he would likely be sore for a few days due to sleeping badly on the couch. The raven haired mess of a man tumbled, ungracefully, off the edge of the couch, the floor once again punching him square in the jaw. _I bet I have a concussion by now_ Harry thought as he caressed his poor sore chin _can I ask for a restraining order from this abusive ground of mine?_

 

He felt his way over to the kitchen, sightlessly groping for a mug or glass as his eyes adjusted to life on the job once more. Harry had clearly been hit by a train last night. _A very kinky train_ he thought as he rubbed the constraint marks on his wrists. He imagined a bright red resplendent Hogwarts Express with the _S.H.I.E.L.D._ insignia of an eagle on the front, charging towards him with a dominatrix's whip hanging off the side. The humourous image surprisingly failed to bring him cheer, but Harry emboldened upon discovering a mug he could utilise. He stretched up to his cupboard, but realised upon opening it that he lacked any teabags. Or any drinks whatsoever. All he had were potato waffles. Harry sighed, returning to the couch with a mug of tepid tap water, and nursed his aching head.

 

On the floor beside the couch was his apartment key, which he quickly snatched up and hid in the safe folds of his pocket. His hand touched cool plastic, and after a few moments of quiet contemplation, Harry realised that it was the trustworthy shape of his Nokia, thrumming in his hand. Harry sipped languidly from the mug before pressing the power button. Silver electronic light draped over his face, and he blinked away the rumbling burn direct light spurred behind his eyes. The low battery symbol blared for a moment before he swiped it away and came upon what he had feared upon waking;

 

 _56 missed calls_.

 

 _Shit_ Harry thought, remembering Michael's innately paranoid nature. He clicked open Messages and felt his eyes widen; _104 messages_. Harry pressed it open, being taken to the first message Mike had sent him;

 

_Got a hangover, want to come over and cry with me?_

Two minutes passed before Mike followed up with;

 

_Text me back when you wake._

 

Two hours later Michael had clearly gotten impatient;

 

_Turn on your phone Harry and text me back. I need to know you're okay, you goober._

 

Ten seconds;

 

_Harry?_

_Hello?_

_Are you okay?_

_Did you fuck that muscle guy again?_

_Text me back._

_Just checking you haven't died or something._

_Harry._

_This isn't funny._

_Charge your phone._

 

Finally, Mike settled;

 

_ok, see you at work I guess._

_Oh shit, it’s Sunday._

_See you on Monday then you dingus!_

 

Harry opened up the Calendar and swore fervently. It was Wednesday. He had been with _S.H.I.E.L.D._ for three whole days. Three whole days with no communication to Michael; the friend who freaked when Harry took slightly longer to deliver his beloved morning blueberry delights. His friend who had been known to make premature calls to certain law enforcement agencies. He skimmed through the messages, anxiety taking hold of his heart with ruthless enthusiasm, taking note of how the easily spotted urgency and primal fear in them increased as he neared the newest ones. The final message Mike had sent three minutes ago said, plain and clear,

 

 _Whoever did this I'll find them. Sit tight Harry. I'll fix this_.

 

Followed by a Sunglasses Emoji.

Harry rolled his eyes slightly at Mike's melodrama. He knew his friend meant well, and it warmed his heart to be at the centre of such concern, but at the same time Harry _had_ been known to go on a bender in the past, _and_ there wasn't much Mike could do on his lonesome. He somehow couldn't envision a fight of his Asian best friend and the whole of _S.H.I.E.L.D._ going well. Harry shivered as he thought of how fragile his friend was in comparison to a far-reaching corporate superpower, especially one that specialised in offensive attacks on behalf of the government (or that was what Harry had gathered during his _pleasant_ stay) _._

 

He called Mike, the phone ringing out only twice before his jittery friend picked up,

 

“Harry?”

 

His heart ached as he heard the pure nerves projected in Mike's voice. He was breathing hard, and Harry could almost feel his hot breath in his ear as a signal of Michael losing his head. He pacified his friend as soothingly as he could,

 

“Mikey its _okay_ , I'm _okay_. Alright? There's no need to panic at all. I was just... on a bender, you know me, ha ha? Two weeks no drinking, of course I would overdo it. I could hardly see my face for ages. And I'm sorry, I should have called, but I was too drunk to even know my hands from the pavement, you know? So, its okay, there's no need to worry, why would anything even happen to me, huh? I'm quite strong, you know, if you ask Jordan...”

 

Mike let out a deep breath of relief. Harry could hear the smile in his voice as he chastised,

 

“You fucker, you're so _argh_! Don't do that again, Harry, or I'll send the police out for you. I was about to this morning. I'd only held off because I knew you were like this. But... just don't scare me like that or I'll make you pay!”

 

His friend's promise of vengeance petered off into good-natured humour. Harry laughed into the phone but upon hearing Mike gear up for a lecture ( _don't laugh at him while he's in a stroppy mood!_ ) quickly switched his tone to appropriately contrite. He soothed, his head still pounding,

 

“Of course Mikey, I'd _never_ hurt you, okay?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

There was a pause where Harry could see Mike's wicked smile in his mind, engraved and implanted like an evocative unforgettable moment of existence,

 

“ _I'm_ not the one you need to convince anyway. Its _Jamie_ , remember? You've missed two _whole_ days of work, no notice, no nothing, and she's _gunning_ for you. Oh, Harry, I'm having a premonition; you, at work, this morning, a bloodbath. I wonder how you can convince her this time, you don't have any secret gayness to reveal _this time_ , what will placate her? How will you do it?”

 

Harry groaned into his hands, feeling his impending doom as if it were hanging tauntingly over his shoulder. He sighed,

 

“How indeed.”


	19. Walk of Shame - 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek! we're finally getting to the juicy bits of his roller coaster of madness, 66'000 words in and Harry finally meets a superhero, even though it's not the one I previously anticipated, and soon, soon, ever so soon, we'll have some Age of Ultronning going on!!!

_Walk of Shame – 1_

His walk of shame to _Jamie’s Cafe_ was witnessed by all self-respecting Harlem associates. A Harlem resident knew it was _that time of the month_ , the fortnightly bender coming to a close, the neighbourhood drunk returning to his homeland, when Harry dragged his heels along the ground and held his head slightly too high to _not_ be overcompensating. He ducked out of the sights of his “neighbours”, attempting to act as he would normally. His whole life felt shaken up – once _again_ , first Muscle, then Red, and now _S.H.I.E.L.D._ This was becoming a habit, and an excruciating one at that – and in his heart he felt that if he just _played his role_ in a similar way then _perhaps_ nothing would need to change.

 

Of course, being in an abusive entanglement with the divine fates, it could never be that simple.

 

He rocked up to the cafe, mustering as much of his usual solid exterior as he could, before he pressed open the door. The bell rung out, signalling his entrance, and as he stumbled through the newly reorganised tables he felt as if all eyes were upon him. Harry flushed, his waitress outfit swallowing up all pride he had ever owned, and made his way to the kitchen doors. They’d most likely been oiled yesterday, so he imagined he could sneak inside without any huge drama, as silent as the bottom of the deep blue.

 

 _‘Tis not to be_ Harry thought as a solemn Jamie approached him. Her usual venom had faded, she looked washed out like a shirt sent to the Laundromat one too many times. Her eyes barely flickered to him, and he realised with stark shock that no one had endeavoured to fondle him on his walk over to the edge of the shop _at all_. Harry felt slightly insulted, was his tush just not tushy enough for them? What was this madness?

 

Jamie dully inquired, sounding for all the world as if she already knew the answer, “Another bender?”

 

“You know me,” Harry laughed out. But, it sounded flat, even to him. There had been a shift in their dynamic, and he hadn’t been around to notice it.

 

“Catch any tail?” She grinned, but her heart wasn’t in it.

 

“You know me,” He repeated, wondering if he was off the hook.

 

The air tightened around his wanting collar. Jamie heaved out a hefty sigh as she folded down on the vinyl stool behind the counter. Sharp midday light was waning, and he spied from his peripheral Amy flicking on the main lights. It was a cloudy day, dreary even – Jamie embodied the weather to a tee.

 

She patted the seat, the one out in front of the counter. Harry peered around at the clients of the cafe, it was a fairly tightly knit neighbourhood. He knew most of their faces by now. Carol, he thought her name was, with pink gloss in spades and mascara bruises around her eyes turned away from the scene – she’d never been one to shy away. Harry, with apprehension, took the offered seat.

 

“Harry, I’ll be frank,” it was with those words that Harry felt a lump of fear mould itself in his throat, “You’re a damn good waitress, okay? There’s no denying that. The tables are spick and span when you work. The customers, albeit a little trigger happy with their _affections_ , tip the establishment well. And me? We get on well, don’t we Harry?”

 

It had sounded like a rhetorical question, but after a few awkward “I should probably say yes” moments Harry hastily nodded his head. The inflection hadn’t been quite right, as if off colour, and he felt Jamie lacked sincerity. Knuckles whitened as his hands clenched in his lap, and he stared intensely across at her.

 

“But,” Jamie continued. As she spoke Harry noticed how tired she appeared. She wore her make up well, there was no physical evidence on her face, but he spied the sag in her shoulders and the heaviness in her words, as if her tongue took an extra five minutes to drag itself out of bed. “We need stability here, reliability. I had to call in some of my heavy hitters while you were off on another bender, Harry, and until you get help or pull your act together, I really can’t have you at my business. It’s bad for business, that is. I’ve written you up a reference, and here’s your three days notice, right now. I wish it didn’t have to come to this, but I really can’t make excuses for you anymore. I need to pay the bills as well. I have to live in Harlem too. I can’t have a wild card waitress.”

 

She handed him the thin slip of paper – the reference. It was typed up, generic. It could have been gifted to Harry by any number of jobs. It felt like a trashy consolation prize. It felt like written on that slip was his grave’s epitaph “Here Lies Harry J. Potter/Evans/Imposter, dead from dumbness, dead from unemployment, dead from Jasmine Ohio’s tight frown.”

 

He wasn’t entirely sure what to say or do. This job was his entire livelihood, his entire way in the world. It may be difficult sometimes but Harry relied on this.

 

He kept his cool, thanked her solemnly, and stood up to evacuate the cafe. It hadn’t really sunk in yet. He’d been laid off. Sacked. Given the boot. Kicked to high hell. No more money from this job, no sir. No way, jose. He was jobless. Unemployed. Set loose upon the world. Freed from the shackle of a reliable income. His wings clipped just as he made the leap. Sure, he had three days, but what was three days? How would he live? As he reached the edge of the place, thinking that perhaps this might be the last time he ever stepped foot in the building, he noticed the silence of it. As if the whole cafe were mourning his removal; they were all in on it, this ramshackle ridiculous family of his. They all knew the joke off by heart. Jamie waved as he reached the state border, tatty shoe playing chicken with the pale streak of the door’s underbelly.

 

He could step out, in that moment, and never come back. The strings were cut. He was set loose. Harry had nowhere to go, he was lost, shame having sunk down the toilet as he drifted aimlessly into the street. What would he do? His heart suddenly thundered in his chest, and everything swerved around him, as if the ground were rebelling against its form. His whole body itched, with untouched momentum, he could fly from here, he could explode outwards onto the street in a pile of bloody chaos, food for the vultures. Harry gasped, bending over as he felt as if he were going to throw up all over the side walk. It was funny, almost, bent over, right in front of the store, no doubt gifting the diner a big ogling view of his behind. What would they think of his bright blue underwear, what would be up for debate as he lost his footing in the world, who would make the first joke about good ol’ Evans and his derriere?

 

To make matters all the _better_ , he noticed someone walking towards the store. John, Natasha's boyfriend, showed up at the Café with a look of heat that the kitchen flames would envy. He was dressed rather spiffy like normal, with a sharp suit that had edges stream lined enough that they could give paper cuts, and a tie flattened, folded, and twisted in such a way that only a professional tie-connoisseur could replicate its delicate beauty. His earth-brown hair was rough, as if he had fought a battle against the wind and had not escaped unscathed, but also seemed so artistically sculpted to appear 'rough' that Harry thought John could have spent far too long combing and ruffling it in the bathroom mirror that morning. His face was clean shaven, breath minty, and eyes sparkling with something other than the monotony of being rich and exploited; as he often appeared to be with Natasha _(gold digger whore that she was)._ In the harsh lines of his mouth something caused Harry's eyes to narrow against his own control, something in the inner soles of his thighs tingled with suspicion. John, all of a sudden, seemed as flat as his own namesake (Johns of the world were known for their alias nature), as if he were less of a man and more of a finely designed caricature intricately shaped and shaved to grasp Harry's attention. John seemed more an imitation of himself – a thoughtless automaton – than something with soul and heart, than something that lived John's “life”.

 

As Harry turned downwards, unable to meet his eyes, still stuck in panic mode, he noticed that John's shoes were finely polished and sparkling in the crisp early morning air. _Suspicious_. Who _ever_ dared to wear polished shoes in Harlem? Especially when _walking_ through the criminal streets and back alleys. John was _up to no good_.

 

“Are you okay? I couldn’t help but notice your panic,” John knelt down beside him, all big sappy eyes and concern and tie gone astray in the whirlwind which was his life.

 

Harry gasped for breath, submerged in this roiling fear, and scampered back from “John” – if that was his real name. His magic ran rampant in his veins, coursing like river rapids, and he worried that perhaps his eyes would flash and reveal him to the world. He wondered if that was how magic worked, even though he had already endured seven years of magical education. All knowledge was lost in that moment of sheer unescapable terror. He stumbled back so fast that he was winded by his own speed and almost toppled over into a face first meeting with the ground. “John”’s concern never dampened, and Harry narrowed his face in suspicion, all sharp angles and burgeoning doom.

 

“N-no, I’m, haha, all good.” Harry tried to speak in between the fall of his stomach and cold flush of his body. Icicles prickled on his skin, as if all his hairs were on end, and he pressed a hand into his side, trying to soothe himself with his breath. “Che-cheery stuff h- haha, here.”

 

John offered a soft hand, but Harry could see the incriminating soldier’s calluses and kept his distance. He trusted John about as far as he could throw him.

 

(and okay maybe it wasn’t fair to hold the man’s supposed alias against him, since it had been _Harry_ who had mentally assigned the name John, but he was in a panic, give him some slack!)

 

“It’s okay. Deep breaths. No one has ever died of a panic attack. This is just one moment in your whole life, it will pass and we’ll all just laugh about this later. It’s okay. Count to ten. Breathe in slowly, one two three, and out again. Yes, like me, deep gentle breathing, calm.” John, once more, attempted to bring him down from his feral state, but Harry was having none of it.

 

He lifted himself from his comfortable spot on the ground and raced away from the stranger. John’s silhouette tapered out into nothing as Harry fled past faceless streets, lost amongst the chaos that was inner-city Harlem. His waitress apparel fell tight against his body as he ran, breath slowing as his body took in the “flight” response, and his magic settled somewhat inside him, cooling down beneath the water as if prepared to rise up once more if required.

 

He slid down a faceless wall, placing his head in his hands, and fished out his Nokia with shaking fingers. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and his breath began to hitch once more. He felt the burn of tears in his chest, and forced them down, constraining the emotion until he could better work through it. _Hopefully never_ Harry snarled to himself as his vision finally focused enough that he could read Michael’s contact in his phone:

 

( _rollerskatebaby_ )

 

_911_

 

Harry texted, the world coming to a halt around him. His head fell back against the crumbling brick with a thick thud and he closed his eyes, ears taking in the busy sounds of a street he had never been on before. He listened out to a car alarm a few blocks away, ringing out like a baby desperate for its mother. The sound of shattering glass sent threads of serenity over his haggard soul. He thought he heard someone swear nearby, a short sharp, “Shit,” before they stumbled on. Cars growled along the main streets. The garbled white noise of cable TV was music to his ears. And, the closest noise of all was the timid rustling of a tree; that meant in his frazzled state of mind he had most likely ended up near a park.

 

His eyes crinkled as he read Mike’s replies,

_fashion emergency?_

_Gimme the money and we’ll go shopping_

_Jj_

_*jk_

His fingers typed before his brain could splutter out a “think before you say” and he responded with;

 

_No can do. no more money. unless you become my sugar daddy fashionista_

 

Mike’s eloquent _oh no she didn’t!_ summed up Harry’s feeling well. He could read between the lines and understood the tacit message that Harry had lost his job, that Jamie had kicked his sorry arse to the curb.

 

 _at least you have savings_ his best friend consoled.

 

Harry grumbled;

 

_But enough money for mimosas?_

Mike chastised _that’s what got you into this mess_ but soothed the wound quick enough with a magnanimous offer;

_wanna stay with me for a few days?_

Harry shrugged to himself, even though he knew Michael wouldn’t be able to bear witness to it, technologically separated as they were. He mused,

 

_Do you think people are more or less likely to rob me now that I’m a pauper?_

Mike’s following frowny face emoji didn’t give Harry any hope.

 

“Need help?” A cheerful voice chirped, interrupting Harry’s reply. He glanced up, first towards the street around him, then to the tree in case he had suddenly gained the ability to converse with friendly tree-rodents, and finally to the patch of wall above him. He blinked, nonplussed, at the figure in shadow who dramatically flipped down from the wall and landed in a spider’s crouch. This mystery individual wore tight fluorescent neon colours, red and blue to be exact, in a jump suit so tight that Harry thought he could count the individual pores on their face – which was concealed in a red lattice-work mask.

 

“Who’re you?” Harry asked, placing his phone down beside him; switched on in case this spandex wearing maniac ended up being bad news.

 

The figure drew closer, their obnoxious colour choices gaining high definition as more light was shed upon them, and replied cheerfully, “Just your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man... though this isn’t really _my_ neighbourhood. I’m just visiting. I saw you curled up on the ground there and wondered if you wanted a hand with anything.”

 

Spider-man waited patiently, on the balls of his feet, whilst Harry mulled over this situation. He – Harry would assume Spider- _man_ was male and the suit _was_ fairly skin-tight if you knew his meaning – emitted the kind of energy you’d expect of a hyper seven year-old who may or may not have been exposed to large quantities of red cordial. Harry thought he seemed fairly harmless, but today had been a lengthy onerous day – getting sacked, meeting John again, returning from being kidnapped – and he could have been off his game.

 

Nevertheless, he relaxed against the wall slightly, knowing he had his magic as security if anything truly untoward occurred, and asked sarcastically, “Can you get me my job back?”

 

Spider-man shifted where he stood. Harry had the sudden urge to gather up this adorable creature and force feed him potato waffles. He shook it away, figuring it was a stray paternal streak that living alone had not yet abolished. There was just something undefinable about this cheerful vigilante figure that set off all his “ooh cute must have” brain signals. “I’m sorry to hear that ma’am, I know jobs are hard to come by in this day and age. Maybe you could tell me your name and I can try and...?”

 

Harry, suddenly bemused and quite exhausted, just nodded along. He corrected, as if in afterthought, “It’s not _ma’am_ , by the way. It’s sir.”

 

The munchin squeaked where he stood, going stiff, and beneath his mask Harry was sure the boy would be a blushing beetroot. Spider- _man_ , pfft, yeah _right_ , more like Spider- _baby_. He hastily apologised, “Oh, I-I’m _so_ sorry ma’am- I mean sir, ohmygod, I didn’t even know! Ack~ I mean, um, of course you’re very manly, I... I just, erm. Ma’am, I’m so s-sorry- Oh holy crap I did it again, sorry _sir_. Sir. I mean, sir.”

 

Harry sniggered at the young boy’s panic, letting his amusement show on his face. Spider-man straightened himself up, no doubt realising how unprofessional he had sounded, and amended his previously embarrassed stuttering with a deep voice that was in no way convincing in the least, “Oh, ah, _yes_. Sir, if you’d just tell me your name I can organise a job for you, they’ll give you a call I’m sure. What would you say you have talents in?”

 

 _You’ve got to love the kid for trying,_ Harry eyed him, assessing him for trustworthiness. It was _hard_ not to flat out believe in this pure soul. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think clearly without the flustered mannerisms clouding his judgement. Spider-man. It sounded _right_ , in his gut, in his instinct. That was a gift he consistently sided with. His gut had never failed him before, and Harry nodded his head decisively, “The name is Harry Luna Evans, I can hand over my phone number if you like. Specialities... hmm... I have some experience in-” _how to say being an Auror without sounding like a maniac_ “- security, similar to policing but with more focus in apprehending suspects than, erm, national secrecy or terrorism or detective work. I’ve dabbled in-” _that moment where I realise I lack skills_ “- crossdressing and- Oh fuck, I meant in waitressing. Waitressing, and I have basic know-how of how a kitchen runs. Ha, trick of the tongue.”

 

Spider-man floundered for a few more seconds before he fully calmed. The word “crossdressing” had evidently tripped him up and he had not-so-covertly choked at it. The boy wonder himself had been about to locomote his phone from hand to spandex suit pocket when he handed over his phone by proxy of dropping it on the ground. Spidey looked forlorn as he stared at his no doubt cracked phone. Harry eyed it for a few fathomless moments before he put his number into the cell, and he threw it back, the very fragile phone only being saved by the skin of its teeth (and superhuman reflexes). He felt smug in the knowledge that his sturdy structurally sound Nokia would survive an avalanche, and that Spider-man’s phone was trash.

 

 _Sounded less vindictive in my head_ Harry rationalised ruefully.

 

With that Spidey tipped his proverbial cap and bid Harry farewell. He shot white silky webs from his wrists and soared away, deeper into Harlem. Harry watched his form shrivel into nothing, disappear into the flickering streetlights of the city. He leant against the wall for support and wondered if he ever would get a phone call back from this, or would have to either starve from pride or break down and beg Mike to house him.

 

As the sun began to drowsily dip down beneath the endlessly reaching city buildings, he lumbered his way back home. His spirits were lightened and face smoothened from its once furrowed expression. Maybe he would look up a few more of these heroes since Spider-man was such a jewel – who knows what he might discover?

 

-o-

 

Ambling his way back to bed, exhausted beyond reasonable measure, he spied Jordan’s dark form in the shadow of his neighbour’s door. He sighed deeply, feeling as if this day _could_ and _would_ get worse just to spite him.

 

For the sole purpose of keeping him off balance, instead of the expected sneered remark of Harry and Mike’s illicit “affair”, Jordan silently stared. It was even more off putting than if the man had actually ventured to say something. Harry slumped back against his own door, keeping a wide birth between them, and intruded upon the eerie quiet, skin crawling, “Cat got your tongue?”

 

Jordan murmured something unintelligible and Harry banged his head back against the door. _We’re not friends, why am I concerned_ he pleaded to himself as he continued on with this stilted dance of theirs, “Fun day doing fuck all, Jordan?”

 

The man scrunched up his nose in disgust. He tilted his head away. The two men were miles apart, speared in half by pride. He grumbled, “You ‘right Evans?”

 

Harry flinched back, shocked to his core. He wished Jordan could have said something _normal_ like “Fun day fucking all, Evans?” instead of this bizarre jilting phrase. It was completely foreign to their dynamic; Jordan sneered and Harry evaded. What was the man thinking, disrupting life in this way?

 

Was he _alright_? Was this a _joke_?

 

Harry nodded, uncommunicative.

 

Jordan shrugged a single shoulder, hands creeping into his unlaundered clothes in search of a cigarette. He lit the nasty thing, taking a slow and steady drag. Harry frowned. He hoped Jordan got struck down by lung cancer, the nerve of him for smoking _right there_ when Harry was only a few doors down. He was annoyed at the second hand smoke and knew the smell would cling to his clothes, but he waited until Jordan had taken his fill. He was curious, sue him.

 

Jordan’s gleaming biceps exuded deeply seated tension. He could feel them throbbing from here, and the back of his neck coloured quite the rouge at the thought. _Stop being gay, you’re not drunk_ he chastened himself.

 

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he resisted the idea of being _gay_ so much and so fervently – he truly had nothing against homosexuals or his own attraction to men. He could admit that much. Deep down he knew what it was, he knew that he was scared of being different, of outskirting the norm. Why else, in a new world where he could choose to be anything he wanted, would Harry decide to live a vaguely normal working class existence whilst hiding his definitely-unbelievably-amazing magic completely? Someone who was connected to themselves and welcomed their own talents would try to employ such magic, but not Harry, never Harry.

 

“You in trouble, Evans?” Jordan’s voice usurped his introspection, like a paint scraper peeling off a house’s flaking skin. He had turned to face Harry head on, finally, as if in saying this they needed to _see_ each other. The curtains were disappearing at a rate so fast that Harry could hardly breathe.

 

“I got sacked today,” Harry admitted, face scarlet.

 

Jordan clarified, unsympathetic to his admission as he was well versed in Harry’s drunken states and could hypothesize the reasoning for said sacking, “I meant _trouble_ trouble.”

 

Harry wanted to laugh and cry because Jordan sounded like a primary schooler and also this was the first concern his neighbour had ever shown him. He was understandably startled. What next, Jordan, upfront homophobe, initiates a dalliance? With all the madness going on Harry wouldn’t be surprised.

 

“...no.”

 

His voice was small. He sounded unsure.

 

Jordan raised a lazy brow, like a panther on the prowl, “Some people in suits came and asked me questions 'bout you. You _sure_ you in no trouble?”

 

_I’m always in trouble but Jordan doesn’t know that. He just knows me as a shy waitress who makes an honest living. Or, at least, used to make an honest living before my arse was fired._

 

Harry scrutinised the man, too tired for any cock and bull, “If I were why’d you give a damn?”

 

Jordan nodded slowly, as if taking in the information, and took another long heart wrenching pull from his smoke. A plume of grey obscured his pale irises. Harry could drown in his eyes if he let himself. Obviously he didn’t. He did have a lick of sense, after all. Drowning was ill-advised.

 

“Hm,” the gruff smoker expelled, “I don’t.”

 

Harry stared him straight in the eye, ignoring the flickering embers of his cig, and cynically said, “Fuck off.”

 

As he finally entered his apartment, one he may not own for any longer, he heard Jordan smuggle in the last word, “With a mouth like that no wonder Mikey likes to fuck you.”

 

Harry may be crazy but he thought he heard envy.

 

 _Who am I kidding? I’m off my rocker_.


	20. Walk of Shame - 2

_Walk of Shame – 2_  

He was in the apartment. It wasn’t a cold night, warm if anything, but he felt thawed cold. As if someone had melted out his heat, he shivered. He’d been steamed. He couldn’t stop shaking.

 

Harry made his way over to the kitchen. He opened cupboards, knowing he had nothing to eat except _goddamn_ potato waffles. He wanted vegetables. He wanted fruit, and lean meat, and bread, and food that stuck in his stomach properly. He was so sick of the crunch of potato. He felt as if he would fall apart if he had to eat another potato ever again. He couldn’t stop shaking, still, and he groped his way around the cupboards, in the dark because he was a little scared of turning the light on right now and facing reality, and it was just as it was this morning. Same old. Same old.

 

Except, no. Except, now nothing can be the same ever again. His whole world has been torn asunder. He was floating on a wild roaming sea, placed expertly between the jaws of the sabre tooth, and his breath was coming hard and fast and he was about to organise a meeting with the ground because his legs had turned to jelly. Harry breathed, too fast, chest undulating so speedily that he got a head rush, and he groped his way out from there and into the hall. The bed was stored up in its spot, safe, and Harry unhooked it and dragged it all the way down to the floor.

 

The sheets were stiff, and covered in a thin film of what felt like a sticky substance topped with a small dusting of sand or dirt or accumulated human grime. He hated sleeping. He hated sleeping on it, but there was nowhere else to sleep, and he couldn’t sleep on the couch because it was near the door and right now he needed to be locked away, back in his own space, where the evil space monkeys couldn’t get at him. And, it wasn’t evil space monkeys he was truly afraid of, but he was scared to voice his fears, so he kept mum.

 

His hands shook, his whole body felt like a maraca, and that was funny somehow. He was a living rattle snake. And maybe that can be his job now? He can vibrate for people, can make chattering sounds with his teeth, can bounce his leg in anxiety and people can stare at him and jeer and throw much needed benjamins. His own prostitution business where he just sits, a pool of magic whirring like a spinning wheel in his lap, needle and thread in palm, the sound of cogs turning and clicking and clunking in his too slow, too slow head, itching to escape, oozing stress, making chattering sounds. A voice in his mind called out, “Hey baby,” and Harry cry-laughed.

 

His head felt heavy, as if he hadn’t eaten all day, and he really hadn’t so maybe that was natural. Maybe this whole thing was natural, because everyone had to fall apart at some point. He would have preferred it if his throat hadn’t felt all swollen and achy, if his eyes weren’t becoming blurred at the edges, and if it hadn’t felt so much like fucking _heartbreak_. What had he expected? Jamie wasn’t his friend; she had never been his friend. Why did he feel so betrayed, so alone? He could call Mike if he wanted but there was nothing to complain about. This whole situation was his fault, he _deserved_ this sticky unpleasant feeling, _he_ had been the one to go on a bender.

 

Except, he hadn’t. It had been fucking _S.H.I.E.L.D._ this time. It _had_ been. Not like the other times. Harry could’ve truly pulled through this time, he could’ve really quit for real, truly, honestly quit. But, what now? What was the point in even bothering anymore with trying to quit? Where had that gotten him? Everything was _worse_ and maybe if he drunk away his sorrows then they would actually leave him for once. He couldn’t do this. Not anymore. He didn’t think he could survive this. How was he going to live? He didn’t have a _job_. He needed to pay _rent_. He was falling...

 

But he was a soldier. He was Harry Potter. He was Harry Evans. He was a multi-dimensional traveller who may or may not be permanently at odds with a ruler of the universe as he knew it; Death. Harry Potter was no slouch. Harry Potter didn’t _give up_. He was no sorry sod, he was no dandy or milksop. He would pull through, because that was what he fucking _did_. It didn’t matter if he felt like he could or not, he _would_.

 

He would make a plan, early tomorrow morning, before the sun arose, but tonight he would allow himself some peace, some rest.

 

Harry went through the motions. He stepped into the shower, washing away the day and grit from beneath his nails. He didn’t look himself in the mirror on his way out. He walked, naked, out into the hall, feeling the chill of the air as it met the water droplets that graced his flesh. It prickled, and he felt a full body shiver, but he didn’t move for long timeless moments. Suspended time, did it truly count?

 

He didn’t reach for a towel yet, needing the flush of cold to remind him what living felt like. Harry eventually took the towel, rubbing himself slowly and methodically until all the cold had evaporated into antsy jumping jacks in his gut. He rummaged through his clothes and first took out a pair of underwear, pulling it through each leg painfully slowly. He found grey sweats that would double as pyjamas for tonight, he didn’t normally give himself the luxury of pyjamas but it was that kind of night. He needed the warmth and comfort. He didn’t want to touch _any_ of his bed, with its unwashed sheet that seared into his flesh uncomfortably, so he needed to cover himself from head to toe. Hair to sole sweats, my friends. He pulled a loose brown top over his skull. It had a disintegrating yellow design on the front which had become illegible. All the lettering had crumbled. Maybe a wash too many or that was simply the inevitability of time at work, everything has to crumble in the end. Last but not least he found his pleated purple jumper. It was tightly fit but _soft_ , and he needed soft right now to calm himself, to breathe through the breathable cotton. He sniffed it; it had been long enough that the washing scent had faded but the musk had not imprinted. He still smelt lemon citrus, but it lacked the stale aroma his clothes got from solitary confinement. He probably hadn’t worn it in a long time, but it hadn’t been eternity. Harry fished out his two special occasion socks. These socks were the aqua thermal ones with the ocean serene patterns that if stretched could reach his shins. His feet would be warm tonight, sweet comforts, sweet treasures. He didn’t look forward to it, but he didn’t _not_ look forward to it.

 

He made his way to the bed, light still off, something in his mind needing to _check_. He flicked on the switch in the hallway, spying no intruders, and double checked that he had put the right sock on the correct foot; these socks were special, each respectively marked with an _L_ and _R_ to signify which foot should be swathed in which article of clothing. Harry liked it, an intrinsic question clicked into place and settled when he did it correctly. It was a friendly ritual, unlikely to go south, it wasn’t often he messed up his socks and in the event that he _did_ it wasn’t the end of the world. Manageable risks. They were just socks, after all, and it was a weight off his shoulders to gain this insignificant victory over the chaos of the universe.

 

_Take that Death! I can... put my socks on correctly... um..._

 

He tilted his ankles in the light, contorting so as to see the _L_ and _R_ labels. His socks had been done right. If they hadn’t he would have tugged them off and started over because tonight he needed orders and instructions and a manual of how to run his life without it falling apart. He was a lonely sailor on this chaotic sea, searching for a map.

 

He missed Ginny so much in that moment that his entire body _ached_ for her. He missed her smell which he could not remember, the softness of her eyes, the fierceness of her beliefs, the way she could teach him how to live, the way she mothered him sometimes when he _needed_ it. Because Harry wasn’t an insta-adult, he hadn’t ever really had a mother, so sometimes even if maybe it made it _weird_ , maybe it was _wrong_ , she liked to mother him and he liked to let her, to give her clues which said when it was okay to do so. They both liked it, it made them feel safe, so maybe it was okay. Maybe it was okay to be weird sometimes.

 

Harry crawled down on the bed, feeling more at ease, the files in his mind winding down from their chaos, shuffling back to the natural order of things. He had been set back to rights, like a rubik’s cube reset to the factory standard, inexplicably satisfying. He layed facedown on the bed, his nose squishing up against the mattress. The springs creaked as he leaned forward, and he hated his bed in that moment because all he wanted was _calm silence_. The whine ceased once he stopped fidgeting, but it was a difficult battle to win since every time the spring groused Harry would cringe and fidget in return. A negative feedback loop at its finest.

 

As he lay there, in the dark, with his eyes open only half wishing they were shut, being a melodramatic piece of shit (because hey he just got sacked give him a break), he reminisced. He thought back, the cogs in his mind clunking as he spun them counter clockwise, and travelled back to the days of whimsy, to his _youth_. It was funny, har har. The joke was that he was only twenty one. The other joke was that he had never been a child. And, the final joke was that he might be immortal. So, fuck you age.

 

He closed his eyes, slowly, tentatively, as he remembered and let his mind fill with images. It was a glass being slowly filled to the brim with molten gold, the liquid gurgling like a burping baby. His stomach jabbed itself with this _weird_ warm gooey feeling as he thought of her, as he let himself remember her. Ginny. Gin Gin, he would call her. His voice always soft, as if worried he would wake one day and she wouldn’t be there beside him. The joke was that it had come true after all, maybe it had been a self fulfilling prophecy, maybe he had wished her away, wished her out of existence. He recalled the way her slanted smile would creep up on him when he didn’t expect it. Out, by the fire, post-coital, minds filled with Tom Riddle, her sardonic grin would sneak its way over his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck, and she would say the most ridiculously comforting thing. He remembered the first time, or maybe it had been the second time, in which they had layed claim to Tom Riddle’s name during their fire-sex confessional. He could hardly remember now, the past blurred into a block of time. Whichever one it had been, he saw the image with crystal clarity, he could see it as plain as day. He could remember the smell of the fire, the familiar feel of rug underfoot, the warm breath of hot cocoa, the indecision topically battling it out in his gut in the form of butterflies. They were both awkward, their brains no longer fuzzed up with sex hormones, bodies drained, minds iced into truthfulness. It had felt stilted, but Gin Gin had leant over, hair curtaining her as the stage opened up and her true talents shone out, and had cracked wise, “I bet Voldy is as impotent as stale cheese, so I guess it’s a compliment to think of his before-photo.”

 

He missed that. He missed her. He missed the way she would pack a picnic basket, cataloguing every ingredient, running it by a list. But, then, at the last minute, in the final hour, when all hopes rested on someone pulling a miracle out of the bag, when the pastrami was undercooked and the mozzarella had mould in it, when the butter had all melted into inedible slop and the fizzy drink had lost its passion, she would change her mind and throw order out the window. She was a miraculous woman, an emergency rabbit-out-of-a-hat miracle maker, a fire witch, magic in every meaning of the word. Each painstakingly written syllable was discarded as she improvised. They had no need for plans when they had her intelligence on their side. Picnics were supposed to be easy, but he was a Potter and she was a Weasley, so it could never be _easy_. But they made it work, because love was a miracle drug and she was his miracle. Ginny was his drug.

 

 “Pesto for lunch, dear,” she said one day, hair up in a messy bun, eyes glittering, “but no egg salad, because unlike my mother I have no clue around a kitchen.” It was funny because she made most of the meals but possessed more culinary illiteracy than him. She cooked for him but she didn’t have a smidgen of know-how, and daily dinners were a joke in and of themselves because both Harry and Ginny made the “yummy” noises but their eyes were shining with mirth. It all just tasted like cabbage and stale toast, but Harry loved it more than anything. He missed her off colour cooking. He wished he could go back and cook with her, he wished he had food in the house now, food he could scramble together to make pesto with, to make mac and cheese, to make crudités, because he missed her so much that he couldn’t live without her. She was his _Ginny_. She was _Ginny_. Where was she? Why was she gone? Where was his wife, his darling? What was he meant to do without her?

 

He missed her so much it hurt, it burned, but he kept his eyes clenched closed and his fists unclenched, lax, because this was all for her. He couldn’t do this without her. He had to do this _for_ her. Therefore, he would keep going. He would wake up every morning and try again. He would go on a job search. He would live. He may be terrified of being homeless again, of being thin and frail and starved, of bones poking out, of being so black out drunk that he cheats on his wife again, he may be scared. But, he went to sleep anyway. Because he still loved her. He still missed her. And she would want this for him.

 

He could follow the Ginny Code. He had a life manual he could follow; a way out. He trusted his wife, whether she was here or not.

 

-o-

 

The first thing in following the Ginny Code was smiling, being _happy_ , making the best of a shit sandwich and eating it too because in _this house_ when we don’t have any caviar for dinner we _eat the fucking shit sandwich_. Harry smiled until it hurt. His lips cracked at the edges, most likely due to the amount of hysterical grinning going on in this house. He said it over and over in his mind, _I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy..._ until all that was left in his brain was pain and happiness, all sloshed together into sleet. He gritted his teeth together and fucking _beamed_ at his despair, because there was no time to fall apart right now, there was only time to _get moving_. He remembered reading somewhere that people who smiled more were generally happier, or that smiling induced happiness, one or the other. Maybe he could trick his brain. That would be fun.

 

Harry amusedly smiled at the thought and the irony killed him.

 

The second thing in following the Ginny Code was _taking stock_. So, Harry brought out everything he owned and lined them up; clothes, unwanted birthday gifts, drawing utensils, his ostensibly pathetic book collection, book shelf, all appliances, The Potato Waffles (and _yes_ capitals were _necessary_ ), the maid outfits (who knew when they would come in handy – wink wink), the scrawled out pictures on his walls, the door frame, the apartment itself, _okay it’s getting harder to pick these things up and take stock of them_.

 

Then, he initiated the most vital part of Plan Taking Stock (PTS – not to be confused with PMS) which was to, of course, _take stock_ of his financial situation. He fished out all unpaid bills, receipts, and most importantly his bank statement. All his savings. Without a job this would be what he lived off. Good thing Harry was terrified of being homeless again so had been rightfully paranoid and had been _prepared_ for this, he was absolutely irrevocably petrified of once again feeling the chill seeping into his bones, jolting at every stranger on the street because anyone could be an enemy and he could never sleep and when he did he dreamt of flames and Ginny’s eyes fading to dusk and the cold grip of Death insi-

 

Happy.

 

Smiling. Be Happy.

 

Shush.

 

He repeated this until his thoughts settled, and he flicked his eyes over the statement. An unidentified emotion that felt a lot like pride ignited in his chest as he thought of how _hard_ he had worked for this money, this safety net.

 

_$14668.98_

 

A stroke of ego bloomed in his chest and Harry’s smile became real. That’s what he got for slaving away for two years, for making an account he never dipped into except for rent and waffles and alcohol, for doing the _math_ (although it _may_ be ninth grade mathematics it was _still math_ ). _This_ would last. He would make it last! He would be the frugal guy at the grocery store cutting up coupons and holding up the register (because let’s face it Harry was a slacker and would forget to do them at home). He would be the arsehole fishing through old magazines for pencils because he didn’t want to spend a damned dime, the person everyone thought was a hobo because his clothes were shredded but was really just penny-pinching. Jobs were scarce, but he was _fucking pumped_. He could see it now, a job search miles wide, all across the city, in every hovel, in every cramped space, in every rotten mouthed child’s braces which he would build in a locally sourced sweat shop. He’d take it. He’d do whatever job, as long as he could stay afloat and return to his piece-of-crap apartment. He would buy a fucking _tie_ – from a charity shop _duh_ , he was being parsimonious at present. He would wear that tie like a _pro_ and sign up for every single interview he _could_ and he would get a new job and he would be _fine_. He would.

 

Happy.

 

Thoughts.

 

Happy thoughts.                                                  

 

The Ginny Code had a third and (in her opinion) most paramount concern; essentials. Now that money was sorted (kinda) and people were happy (um, some hardcore denial there that Harry didn’t even _want_ to try and unpack) the next step was to stock the cupboards. This was not the time to be abstemious in the food department. He could hear her voice ringing out in his head, clearer than it had been in _years_ , “Sweetums, one thing before you go off on your _oh so brilliant_ Auror expedition, hm, don’t you think you’re forgetting a little _fuel_ for your _engine_.” When Harry had misinterpreted and thought the “engine” was a far more _sexual_ metaphor Gin Gin had indulgently given him a commiseration kiss before palming off health-conscious sandwiches into his lap (certainly not what he had wanted in his lap, that was for certain).

 

Food, number uno on the list of things he had to do.

 

It was short list for now, which Harry typed up on his Nokia, needing to get all this down before the energy fizzled into nothing. His bouts of creativity and ambition came in short sharp bursts which he harnessed and strangled the life out of until the mere thought of going outside was enough to cause heart palpitations and his body would say “no, nu uh, we be taking a napsy now.”

 

If his body was a person it would be the annoying guy who spoke in babyish tones that made everyone want to shoot him in his aggravatingly smarmy annoying face. Exhibit A; “napsy”.

 

_To do list_

Ugh. He _hated_ to-do lists. They were infinite, nothing was ever _done_ , more stuff just appeared.

 

Harry backspaced like crazy.

 

_Get life back on track list_

 

He scrunched his mouth up, too wordy.

 

_Fuck off list_

Off topic.

 

_Does the name matter?_

 

Too meta.

 

_Gimme the moolah_

 

Eh. Harry shrugged to himself. It will do.

 

“Gimme the moolah” consisted of a myriad of pinnacles; a card tower of scatterbrained dot points.

 

_*get food_

_*get tie_

_*get job_

_~~*call Mike?~~ _

_~~*...mimosas?~~ _

_~~*burn waitress outfits?~~ _

_~~*become a stripper?~~ _

_*scrap articles 5, 6 and 7_

_*and 4 too but don’t tell Mike_


	21. Working Man - 1

_Working Man - 1_

 

It turned out Harry wouldn’t do _anything_.

 

Most of the untaken encouraged work in Harlem was not strictly legal... Upon trying to obtain work in a dry-cleaners Harry had stumbled upon a money laundering scheme and _no thanks going to leave now_. Consequent to almost getting his brand new tie filled with bullet holes, Harry took it upon himself to be a _tiny bit selective_. And, okay, maybe he was kinda terrified to leave the house now, because this run-of-the-mill spot of selectivity lasted two days, and _no he’s fine keep smiling_.

 

He’d taken to locking his door. He wondered if the drug cartel was after him. What the hell was his life. Okay, he just needed some more sleep. And, yeah, maybe he was laying face down in bed and counting to infinity with his eyes firmly stretched open, but give him a break, he’d _just_ been fired... a few days ago.

 

-o-

 

He had completed the first two points on the list, which he counted as a firm tally in the _win_ section.

 

List - 1. Harry - 2.

 

The job one was worrying, but he had barely spent any of his savings. Only on a tie and groceries and rent. Which, okay, it _was_ adding up, but he had _plenty_. He hadn’t spent even a thousand yet, only around eight-hundred, and things _add up_ , so it was okay.

 

Keep. Fucking. Smiling.

 

His smiling mantra had gone downhill considerably after his self imposed exile – it had begun as friendly and encouraging before spiralling into the territory of threats over limbs and the loss of such. He kept smiling, don’t get him wrong, but it was more of the type of smile-grimace you had when you cried. Faces liked to smile when they were sad. It was God’s way of saying fuck you.

 

He didn’t want to sink into his thoughts again, so he stuck to the Ginny Code. Hanging on, but barely.

 

He opened all the cupboards and just stared for a long time. On the counter he had old tatty cookbooks, looking as if the pages would shred into a million separate pieces consequent to the smallest gust of wind. He imagined his fakely smiling moustache-wearing man with a chef hat chasing after said hat as the wind picked up through his cracked window (and _yes_ maybe he threw a shoe at the window in a fit of frustrated agoraphobia) and the front cover tore off and away. He would watch it fly off into oblivion, hand over heart as he sang the English National Anthem, blessing that runaway hat-bride with a pious “amen”.

 

And _yeaaaaah_ he had been shut up inside way too long, and the stir crazy had stagnated into just normal crazy.

 

His eyes flicked back to that chef, catching his insanely flat eyes. He hummed, hand hanging off of his hip in a way Ginny used to do (and yep this is called mental regression). He hadn’t really used any of the recipes. He _had_ stashed all his waffles away in the deeper less hospitable crevasses of the refrigerator, hopefully he wouldn’t be tempted into old habits. Ginny Code required three meals a day to be satisfied, and even though he wasn’t hungry he still made the well-balanced meals and scoffed them down his sticky gullet like a man.

 

A starving man.

 

A man who was secretly a beast.

 

A man who was sick of waffles.

 

A man who was a little on the edge of a breakdown and still _didn’t have a job and fuck where’s my security_.

 

Let’s just say the carrots weren’t as expertly chopped as usual. Let’s just say the carrots looked so alike the inside of a man’s flesh, strewn up and hung in a torture chamber, that Harry felt the need to evacuate the kitchen and enter toilet-city for a little one-on-one toilet-throat action. Let’s just say toilets needed to work on their game because Harry cried by the end of it, not exactly a sign of intense irrefutable satisfaction. Let’s just say no more carrots for a while.

 

-o-

 

He traced the rim of his glass, staring forlornly into the non-alcoholic water and feeling a sudden dredging of pity for how his life had turned out. Hunched over his pristine kitchen counter top, staring off into infinity, Harry Potter waited patiently for his food supplies to run out.

 

His apartment; spotless. You see, there isn’t much to do when trapped in one’s living space for an indefinite amount of time. Harry had _finally_ read through all of his school books and exceeded expectations in the culinary arts – he’d stopped burning the macaroni and all his potato waffles had died mysterious and untimely deaths. Trapped, freaking out over being the next hit of a drug cartel in ghetto Harlem, and becoming awfully close to throwing a waitress fashion show to the dance beat of his neighbour’s sex sounds, one could say Harry had reached a wall of boredom.

 

His face perked and said boredom dissipated upon the sound of his door being knocked.

 

Harry stood up, throwing back the last of his water and wincing as his glass chipped upon a too rough reunion with his dish rack. Thumping his way to the door, heart in tandem and eyes sparkling with intrigue (finally detoxed), Harry greeted his... unexpected guest.

 

It was Starp.

 

And, _okay_ , Harry would readily admit to having forgotten the guy’s name. But, he did remember enough that it had been one of Muscle’s roommates from the penthouse shaped like malformed genitalia. His smile whisked itself off his face, fading into the sunset never to be sighted again, and Harry could only stare as a man known for “his suits” – in Mike’s own words – shouldered past him into his for-once clean apartment. Mr. Starp’s nostrils flared as he poked about, and Harry made an aborted gesture with his mouth to say “stop” only to realise he held no power; even here in his own abode.

 

The man shuffled through Harry’s recently reorganised wardrobe with nary a greeting nor question of allowance. He cocked a brow and said, impressed to Harry’s gall, “Mr. Evans, may I commend you on your kinky maid apparel from one fan to another.”

 

Harry sighed deep and exhausted, before he made his way over to the couch and took a seat. What would be the point in trying to stop or slow this man’s intrusion? Mr. Starp clearly held more social standing than he, and more money too. Harry may be magic, but he wasn’t _powerful_. He hadn’t even been able to free himself from _S.H.I.E.L.D._ only knowing the barest bones of wandless magic to get by.

 

“...are these _grade nine textbooks_?”

 

Mr. Starp said incredulously, as if Harry had offended his core sensibilities. Harry flushed violet, he still had not revealed to anyone his secret learning, but it appeared that good-ol' Starpy had discovered one of his most embarrassing hidden practices within minutes of entering his apartment for the first time. He was jolted back to Mousy and Lamppost barging into his flat and doing the exact same thing.

 

“Even though you're kinda playing into the uneducated Harlem stereotype, I'm still going to offer you a job at my prestigious company, _Stark Incorporated_. Whatever you get paid now as a sexy stripper I can offer you twice as much on the spot, no qualifications needed.”

 

Harry floundered for a moment.

 

_What?_

Was this just his life now, forever mad?

 

He gripped the couch, seeing Stark (he’d said _Stark Incorporated_ , not Starp, and Harry would take his misunderstanding to his _grave_ ) flap about in his kitchen, making inquisitive noises and every now and then rattle about some jars.

 

“What’s this?” The billionaire held up a very incriminating piece of paper to Harry’s finicky light fixtures; a scrawled out drawing of his wife, titled _Gin Gin_. Harry had thought he’d thrown away all his drawings, but beneath the fridge a complete stranger had uncovered his past life.

 

“...my wife,” Harry said, in light of not knowing what to say, blurting out secrets which he would normally keep close to the chest. He’d never been the type to speak outright, but something about Mr. Stark’s flippant attitude loosened his defences. _Let’s hope he doesn’t work for S.H.I.E.L.D._

 

The man twirled around dramatically, facing Harry with a put out pout, “Thor won’t be happy about that, Picasso.”

 

Harry shrugged, his face aflame at the thought of Thor (Muscles’ actual name reasserting itself in his head, and _yes, I’m taking that to my grave as well_ ) and a pit of guilt thudding in his gut. He joked lamely, “She’s only with me for my art.”

 

Mr. Stark shook his head, tutting to himself, and slid the drawing back under the fridge as if it had always meant to be there. He sleuthed over to Harry on the couch and plopped down beside him, leaning back and kicking up his feet. Closer up, Harry could see all the lines etched into his face, smothered by fake tan and potent old-person cologne. He may have fought in a war, but Mr. Stark held a worldly feeling about him that made even _Harry Potter_ feel a little on the small side. _Thank you Dursleys for the stunted growth_ Harry thought.

 

“Hey, de Vinci, I know I’m hot as hell but stare any harder and both my girlfriend and adulterous boyfriend will get greener eyes than yours.” Mr. Stark would have sounded almost serious, if not for his words.

 

Harry blinked, completely taken aback by his honesty. He recalled suspecting _something_ about Dr. Banner and Stark, but it’d been too long for anything other than blurred impressions.

 

Mr. Stark smirked knowingly, fidgeting about on the couch as if worried for bedbugs (Harry was a little worried too), “I know, I know, people don’t expect the candour, but, baby, since you’re going to be my secretary I figure spilling my guts is only going to happen sooner or later.” The vexing man enacted an Eureka gesture, as if he had just thought of something, and shoved a pad and pen into Harry’s hands – even though said stationery had not been there five seconds previously – and said, “Take notes, Michelangelo, Bruce Robert Banner is my secret lover who should, and write this in all caps, NEVER MEET MY PUBLIC GIRLFRIEND; VIRGINIA PATRICIA POTTS.”

 

Mr. Stark acted as though he hadn’t just been shouting at Harry in his apartment with the thin walls and nosy next door neighbour, and smiled languidly like a satisfied lion. Harry had to wonder who’s kid he’d just eaten. Harry dutifully scribed the words onto his newly gifted pad. Sue him, he needed a job. He tucked the ball point pen behind his ear once he was done, and waited for further instruction.

 

“Bee Tee Dubs, be sure to thank Spider-boy next time you see him for scoring you this gig. Got it?” The madman inquired cheekily, and upon Harry’s affirmative response began to idle to the door, “My personal number is in the back, feel free to text for more details and when you’ll need your Stark Inc compulsory uniform.”

 

His head popped through the door as it swang closed, to ask in a riling tone of voice, “Women’s or Men’s?”

 

Harry groaned; job crisis averted, hell achieved.

 

0o0o0

 

_Got a job_

 

_cool, where @?_

_...Stark Inc._

_ha ha ha._

_I’m serious_

_oh_

_Oh?_

_I mean...cool?_

 

Pseudo supportive best friends were the best.


	22. Working Man - 2

_Working Man – 2_

The night swept in, filling his ears with a roaring drive Harry hadn’t experienced in a long time, and he fell asleep with his body open, light off, and mouth above the cupboards. Sleep came easy, and his mind was filled with a momentous rocketing feeling, as if he was finally taking off, lifting above the ground, floating, no, _flying_ upwards.

 

_A hulking mass pummeled into him from the side. Harry flipped them over, ingrained war memory possessing him. He pressed his knuckles into the body beneath him, into the throat where tender flesh hid, didn’t meet their eyes for fear of legilimency, and instead yanked up an innocent sleeve._

_No Dark Mark. He shook his head. That didn’t mean anything. Not all Death Eaters were marked, after all. It meant nothing. Don’t feel calmer. It meant nothing._

_“Never...” said the prone body, at his mercy “...have I been with a man and felt such...” it felt good, almost, this thrill of power, but Harry pushed through the feeling, ignoring the tremors it gave him to think of himself as **powerful** , he was terrified of being like Him “... sin, such desire. Please, my lady, hold me...” Harry’s eyes opened in shock “...down...”_

_Harry’s hold on the man loosened. He suddenly felt their position magnify, shining brightly into his face, like a beam of blinding light. Him. Harry. On **top** of a **man**. He jerked back, skidding across the floor, a band of molten fire burning on his finger. He lifted his hand to the light – his wedding ring, a painful symbol, searing with his adultery. Harry winced, moisture forming in beads in the creases of his eyes, and stared, horrified, at the enemy slain on the floor. Now still._

_“...Muscle?” He said, to the empty quiet._

 

Awareness slammed into him and Harry awoke to find himself tangled in sheets. Nightmares of the War had long since lost their shock value, but a bad dream about his one night stand was unheard of. He rubbed his knuckles against his eyes, forcing sleep from him, and slipped out of the feverish hold of his bed, creeping inaudibly towards the light switch. Flicked on, he made his way to the door, the blare of his Nokia causing a wicked squint as he looked at the time.

 

_3:44 AM_

 

Harry groaned, settling down on the cold hard floor, a feeling of dread and splenetic anticipation snowballing in his gut.

 

Today: his first day as a PA at Stark Inc.

 

His first conundrum – how to get out of the house?

 

-o-

 

Harry’s phone had gone off, and upon being checked he’d seen a message from a contact labelled ‘cooldude.’ Suspicious and heart already in his throat from the impending doom of needing to leave his very safe and secure aboe (kinda? It was in ghetto Harlem after all and his neighbour was a drug dealer), he flicked open the message tab.

 

_Tony Stark here, in tha flesh. Car outside._

 

Harry quirked his lips, wondering if this job was _really_ worth it,  before his empty cabinet glared down with a very judgy expression. Considering the fact that cabinets _can’t_ make expressions, this was clearly an ominous omen that he should attend his employment opportunity. Magic bundled in his stomach (just in case) Harry took a deep breath and flung open his front door.

 

No fear. No fear. Big smiles. You’re Harry Fucking Potter. Defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Consumer of mouldy sandwiches no longer!

 

He stepped out into the flush of his hallway, ready to tackle the world.

 

-o-

“The name’s Happy,” said the chauffer, hands glued to the wheel in the 9 and 3 positions. The limo – and _seriously_ a _limo?_ – drove soundlessly down the road. Harry’s neighbours peered at the strange sight of a high class car in their type of district. Evidently rumours would be rife of Evans’ new occupation as either an upper level crime lord or prostitute. Harry severely hoped this didn’t affect his credit rating.

_Damn. I really am an adult._

He didn’t trust soundless cars. They seemed like defanged snakes; pointless and trickster.

He’d been too enraptured by the pristine interior of a car he would never be able to afford, no doubt, and too concerned over what this job would actually _entail_ to think of expressing his name. He’d waited too long to reply to Happy’s introduction, and Aunt Petunia’s ingrained etiquette grit into his grinding teeth. He ignored the gnawing feeling of ‘greet guest’ in his sternum. Harry remained courteously silent.

Next to him on the seat was a body bag. Harry poked the plastic, wincing at the creaking crinkle of black plastic, but fortunately discovered it wasn’t a body bag at all but a garment bag. _Same difference_ he snickered to himself, thinking of the ruthless reality of the fashion industry.

 _Hermione would be proud of me._ Harry thought, people whizzing by as the limo picked up speed and Harlem disappeared into a dream, imagining badges made for F.A.R.T (Fashion’s Accessible Rights Troupe). 

 

-o-

In his mind, he’d managed to design the front cover of the badge and subsequent magazine for F.A.R.T. (Dobby dressed scandalously in a sash with S.P.E.W. sewed along the front, his folds and wrinkles of skin on display as he sinfully winked), when the limo came to an abrupt and disjointed halt. Harry realised he’d reached the underground parking facility for Avengers Tower (the new name of Stark Tower). He mussed up his hair, awkwardly waiting for instruction from Happy as the car’s engine cooled.

“Get out,” the drive grumbled, “And don’t forget your security badge.” He pointed rather helpfully to the laminated Stark Inc. badge that rested atop the garment bag. Harry nodded gratefully at the driver, skin prickling at not verbalising this gratitude, and scooped the midnight bag over his shoulder like a runaway bride. It kicked up a storm as he mangled both of them out of the limo, door stubbornly refusing to open until Happy took pity and clicked the child lock off, but Harry navigated both him and his darling garment to safety.

 _If you don’t want to seem gay, you should probably stop caressing this very man-shaped bag_ Harry flushed, glad for the dark of the parking lot, making his way to the lit up elevator with none too much pride left intact.

He finagled the lanyard into his left hand and swiped it over the scarlet flashing barcode scanner as his garment attempted yet another escape. The elevator pinged. Harry instinctively reached for his phone, as it sounded exactly the same as his Nokia ringtone, before he halted. A feeling of arousal arose in his gut and he could remember himself in this very elevator, manhandled by a drunken Musc- Thor as the elevator dinged monotonously in the background. _I’m just going to **love** this sound every day, aren’t I? _Harry mused sarcastically, successfully wishing away the... evidence of the sound’s affect.

The doors opened and he rushed himself inside, placing the ID around his neck and striving for a casual lean against the wall. Two seconds after he had finally relaxed and begun to pep-talk himself, Harry jumped out of his skin.

“Greetings Mr. Evans. Welcome to Stark Incorporated and your first day of work.”

Harry shrieked, potently unprepared, his hand reaching for a wand he no longer had. Fortuitously the elevator lights did not flicker and his control over his magic remained unwavering, but he still found himself crowded against the wall. The war ache faded into embarrassment as he recalled who this voice truly was.

JARVIS, the sarcastically inclined AI. Good golly.

Harry ventured into small talk, throat tight and rough attire blaringly obvious in a setting of such flawlessness. Merlin, even the windows could afford million dollar views. “Erm,” Harry murmured, “Nice to... remeet you.”

JARVIS replied, “Likewise, Mr. Evans.”

Awkward silence ruled over them for three eternal moments. Harry contemplated swallowing his own tongue to escape from this tangible unease, but just as his mind had begun to investigate the logistics of the act, the elevator Nokia ringtone sounded.

He sighed in relief, “Thanks JARVIS.”

Naively believing JARVIS may leave him be once exiting the elevator, Harry stepped outside. He left his body in an out-of-body near-death experience when the AI politely replied, “You’re very much welcome, Mr. Evans.” His spirit looked down at him with disgust before Harry rocketed back down to Earth.

He’d swear, but the big brother robot would hear him and he needed this job.

Floor 67. It felt like walking through memories as Harry made his way across, garment bag still firmly clutched to him. The floor, smooth and cool, bombarded him with visions of him sneaking out of M-Thor’s bed and plodding out into full sight of a paranoid Stark. The futuristic walls and spacious designs, the no doubt billion dollar pieces of art, everything brought him back to that night. It was like a living pensive.

“M’eh ‘Arry?” Harry’s eyes flicked up as a bedraggled Tony Stark stumbled into the living room where he had been apprehensively hovering. The man scratched a bare strip of stomach, shirt unbuttoned and hair ruffled from a night of partying. The deep purple beneath his eyes was like looking into a mirror, and Harry only just held in a self-deprecating snicker.

Playboy. Philanthropist. Genius Inventor.

A mess just like Harry.

“Erm, hello Mr. Stark,” Harry splayed his arms, hoping he looked to be non-threatening and well-worth-your-money instead of a gormless incompetent, “I’m here for the PA position.”

Stark wrinkled up his face, eyes lighting up as memories, promises and yesterday no doubt hit him square in the face, “Oh! Of course. You’re kinky maid dude- Or, wait, are you a crossdresser or, uhhh, what’s it called again? JARVIS?”

The creepy as hell AI sounded from who even _knew_ where, the ceiling most likely, in a posh as fuck British accent (and Harry could say that since he _was_ as British as they came, more Brit than tea and toast), “I believe you meant transgender, sir.”

Stark limped filthily across the immaculate floor, so clean Harry could see his expression in it like glass. This utter disregard for cleanliness caused a mother-hen part of Harry to want to scold him for treading dirt across it, but he resisted fervently. He _needed_ this job, after all.

Stark snorted like a snob, pilfering through kitchen closets (the apartment was an open floor plan with only a line in the floor separating living room and kitchen) whilst resuming his previous thought, “Yeah, man or woman or whatever? Just tell me, Pep says I don’t need another lawsuit because of, uhh, what’s it called again? JARVIS?”

The supposed ‘genius’ could not recall the words. JARVIS filled him in, tone on the knife's edge of condescending, “I believe you call it ‘pandering’, Ms. Potts calls it ‘civility’, and the law calls it ‘the law.’”

Stark nodded absently, shoving a grubby (oh _fuck_ let me clean that hand, wash your hands young man! – Harry’s thoughts rebelled in a Molly Weasley cosplay voice) paw into a box of Lucky Charms. He said, peering at Harry with a keen discerning eye, “Yeah, tell me your uhh... thingies and I’ll say them or whatever.”

Harry blinked, this job might just be too complicated for him. He didn't know where to begin with 'thingies'. JARVIS interrupted helpfully, “He means pronouns, Mr. Evans.”

Oh. Okay. Weird.

“Uhhh... I guess I’m just a, erm, crossdresser. Still a guy. Um. No one really bothers though, with the correct labels.” _An unwilling crossdresser_ Harry wished he could add but he didn't want to push it. His thoughts flickered back to Jamie and her insistent practice of calling him a girl. It hadn’t really bothered him, he’d been through a war after all and 'pronouns' weren't high on his list of aspirations, but he wouldn’t complain if Stark bothered to address him correctly. It might be nice for a change. Who knows, it might stick?

Stark crunched on a flake of cereal, packet crinkling, and gestured wildly, “Whatever! I got off track. You, here, Picasso, want to be my PA? Not the Stark PA, because that job has been filled by Pep, since she's CEO now and therefore any 'Stark PA' is just code for _her_ PA. So,  _my_ PA?”

Harry said, “Yes Mr. Stark. That’s why I’m here.” He couldn’t quite keep the sass out of his tone.

Stark grinned toothily and Harry was struck by the thought that perhaps he was simply a very lonely guy, “Oh goodie, a sassy one. Me likey.” Mouth disgustingly full with bits of cereal, Stark powered through, “Okay, I’ll explain the basics of your job. It’s not... _too_ complicated.” The billionaire flopped down on a stool in the kitchen, one hand still rummaging with flying bits of breakfast morsels flea-jumping into his head of hair. He looked looked awfully feral for a man who probably had a personal stylist.

 _Rich people_ Harry mentally rolled his eyes, thinking of Draco Malfoy and then himself; he’d _been_ rich in another life. That was a strange thought. He'd probably owned a massive manor, he would've been able to afford anything his heart desired. It was funny, for right now he missed none of that. He only missed the people, the one thing you couldn't replace with possessions or quavering piles of cash.

“Basically I want someone who can tell people I’m busy. So, I work, a lot, a lot, a _lot_. In my workshop, seven days a week, twenty hours a day, all days forever bab _y_. Your job is to tell people to piss off, but politely. Like, yes ma'am, I'm afraid Mr. Stark is a little busy right now blah blah yada yada. And, deal with the media and my appointments and stuff. And, _oh_ , occasionally fill in for the receptionist. Yep. Oh, and wear the uniform. Yep.” Stark trailed off, hand tapping on the surface of the countertop, misty eyes stuck in pensive contemplation.

Harry stood, feeling a little like a soldier at attention. He stopped himself from saluting like a little shit. Now was not the time to test limits. (An Uncle Vernon-esque figure sounded from the deep recesses of his psyche, “You little _shit_.” It was all the encouragement he needed to remain stationary.)

The man jumped up, suddenly full of energy, and flung himself over to where Harry awkwardly loitered. “This is important,” He breathed out in one go, almost sending cereal spittle into Harry’s face but thinking better of it at the last minute. “Brucie, my affair, and Pep, my wife, can _never_ meet. That’s your job, got it? Don’t let them come to me at the same time. And, if that’s impossible, _make sure_ that Pep _never_ sees me intimidate with him. This is the _most_ important thing! Do you understand?”

Harry, thinking the question was rhetorical, dangerously stayed silent. Upon realising it _wasn't_ in face rhetorical, he quickly responded, sure that Stark’s eye would pop out of its socket at the level of stress he appeared to be at, “Yes, Mr. Stark. I’m a-okay.”

Job out of jeopardy, Harry sighed as Stark nodded with surety.

Stark met his gaze, held him in suspense for a moment, before breaking the tension with a wink and a jaunty salute, “Got to skedaddle sonny, I have a lover who is in need of maintenance.” Scooping out another boatful of cereal the energised man fled the room, almost skipping.

Harry watched him go, unsure of which lover he was referring to. On the kitchen counter was a note and a set of keys. Note in hand, he let his eyes scan the first word.

It was for him.

_Harry,_

_your desk is in a room by the elevator for this floor, you have another desk outside my workshop which is on floor 18. ~~Go~~ Be at the correct desk depending on where I am. Lunch is around one every day, you can have a one hour break, maybe eat with the interns and get to know them in case you need to take over some duties, and another break... at some point. Let JARVIS know when. Tell me if something urgent comes up. There’s a bathroom in the wall-space next to the fridge, just use the passcode “I need to piss” and JARVIS will open it up for you; you can change into your uniform there for today. ~~Make sure I~~  I look forward to talking more with you   ~~we can hang after work if you like!!~~ professionally. Don’t bother me if I’m busy with booty or if I’ve put up a “do not disturb” sign outside my workshop (it usually means it’s a little too top secret for a PA). If Pep asks who you are, just say you’re my PA... that will probably work._

_-Tony Stark_.

Why did Harry have a bad feeling about this?


	23. Working Man - 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry that it's a bit shorter than normal, I'm a bit out of the groove lately!

_Working Man - 3_

The main skill being Stark’s PA required was patience and a tolerance for boredom.

Harry was on call 24/7, as Stark worked “unusual hours”, and would yank himself out of rest at the batman ringtone Stark had hacked his phone with. Magic to the core, he still had yet to figure out how to change the ringtone and Harry thought he’d never want to watch another episode or movie containing batman ever again. It was deeply ingrained into his brain that batman meant sitting at his desk and watching paint seep from the walls (which was even more boring than watching it dry.)

He’d worked at Stark Inc for about a week and the only other human soul he’d seen so far was a bedraggled, oil-stained Stark. His hours were so bad that he hadn’t even had the audacity to call Mike to complain, and he didn’t _have_ any other real friends. Except perhaps Marissa, but if he called her at two in the morning, she would most definitely request a booty call. True to his word, Stark was scarcely seen, and would only emerge from his man-cave of technology for the barest of human necessities, such as to refill his coffee cup and fall asleep in the bed installed into the wall near Harry’s desk. ‘Brucie’ had been away the entire week on ‘hulk business’ (Harry heard Stark mutter something about a scepter and Loki, but he could have easily been drunk off of sleep deprivation), thus Stark demanded that Harry look out over him. Stark said that although he had “no _real_  defensive training” – Harry held in a snicker at the thought of thrumming power that pulsed through his very veins one day being unveiled and causing his boss great embarrassment – he could work as a stand-in, since he boasted that the Avengers Tower was the safest building in all of New York.

Harry failed to see the logic in that, seeing as it was a veritable magnet for trouble with most of New York’s finest heroes taking residence here at least once in their careers.

Harry had a vague inkling as to why Stark asked him to watch over him, most likely it was related to latent PTSD from all his battles. He’d had a similar ailment after the war, except reversed, in which he needed to Floo Call all his close friends and family to secure their whereabouts and state of health. It soothed his mind, and if Stark was experiencing similar stuff he wouldn’t begrudge him a safe overseer.

His other job consisted of waiting for the elevator to ping open – he’d practiced about a million different greetings in his head of what to say to a visitor – and organising non-computerised paperwork to be translated into digital files. It was dull work, typing everything  up, but JARVIS was okay company (even if he had many questions as to his actual identity once he’d gotten wind of Harry Evans’ nonexistent birth records) and liked to quip about his creator. Additionally, JARVIS’ British heritage was a bittersweet pang of home, but Harry wouldn’t trade it for anything. He didn’t want to forget anyone, after all.

There was a surprising amount of hard copies of old Stark Inc transcripts, comprised before the current owner’s time (Virginia Potts, Harry had looked her up and found himself quite intimidated.) A positive outcome from all this menial transferral work was his increased typing speed, from a painfully slow single digit transfer of data to fully fledged whole-hand brilliance. It was still only at 50WPM (and yes Harry had daringly looked up an online typing test because Sweet Circe he was _proud_ of all his hardwork) but it was getting quicker every day.

Other unofficial parts of his job were making sure Stark ate once he awoke from fitful slumber in his desk adjacent bed, pretending Stark didn’t require him to watch over him as he slept, conversing and bonding with the interns (which he had yet to do to JARVIS’ amused consternation), and meeting the CEO of Stark Inc. The _doubly_ unofficial part of his job was to research Tony Stark and find out more about his job – this even Stark did not know about.

Yet, apart from all of this, the pinnacle duty remained; to watch the elevator for visitors and keep people out of Stark’s workshop. Coffee on his desk, because who needs sleep when you have chemical substances, uniform donned and Potter Hair as riled and indomitable as always, Harry Potter was up for the challenge, confidence restored and magic brimming inside him. He had a good feeling about today.

-o-

Said good feeling trounced off into the abyss as his boss woke up to find him reading Vox media slander about his dalliances with numerous ladies, his cursor hovering ominously over a direct link to “Tony Stark and Christine Everhart; the weapon designer’s 45th sex tape.”

“I see you looked me up,” The man himself remarked, his gaunt expression and the bags under his eyes slightly staunched. His eyes flickered to the damning position of the cursor, “Going to watch that?”

Harry saw no reason to hide his action, since he’d been caught red handed, and replied at a dead drawl (channelling the Draco Malfoy ponce part of him), “Why, is that a challenge, Mr. Stark?”

Stark laughed good-naturedly, waving his hand in that opulent way that rich people sometimes did, perhaps to wipe away Harry’s Harlem stench ( _I am definitely projecting_ thought Harry ruefully). He purred, breath moist at Harry’s ear, “Why, do you want me to watch? Didn’t you know I went twelve-for-twelve with one year’s troupe of Maxim Girls?”

Harry scrunched up his nose, his Griffindor morality not liking the ethics of this workplace dynamic – he never would have stood for something like this going on with his Aurors – and requested cordially, feeling brave since his escape from Jamie’s daily sexual perusal of him, “I’d appreciate some distance, Mr. Stark.”

Stark simply laughed again, backing off, hand outstretched. Harry, ever dogged in whatever job he aspired to fill, anticipated his desire and handed over a steaming coffee. His own coffee sat cold and lonely on the desk, but he didn’t comment on such a fact. Stark gulped down scolding mouthfuls, eyes lighting up as he pranced over to the doorway. He called over his shoulder, as if to purify Harry’s opinion of him, “I’m monogamous now...”

 

At Harry’s raised brow, he defended himself, “I mean, I’m in _two_ monogamous relationships, so technically I’m _doubly_ monogamous and virtuous and yeah, I’ll stop speaking now.”

 

His boss scampered out of the room, as quick as a whip’s descending tail. So quick Harry saw more blur than outline.

 

Stark had been hanging around more, just lingering in Harry’s general vicinity, after the first few days, and Harry thought he might know why. He thought that Stark was a terribly _lonely_ person; no other Avengers were currently hosted at Avengers Tower (‘Brucie’ out on the hulk mission, Thor – and why does that name do funny things to Harry’s stomach? – doing Merlin knew what, Captain America in some sort of tizzy over something or other, and the rest of the gang just plain distant from Stark). Harry’s job was to greet and turn out all visitors, but in all his days working here there hadn’t been _any_ visitors. No wonder he was as bored as stale cheese. There was no one. Not one person. If not for JARVIS’ prompting for Harry to provide Stark with basic necessities, Stark might’ve starved with no one any the wiser.

 

-o-

“...there’s a reason why I only do committed relationships now. When I cheated before, I would go with any old floozy. We fuck, we make small chat, they might leave or stay. See, the problem is sometimes a new relationship is created. And before I know it I escape my job to be with my wife, and then I escape my wife to be with my affair, and then I escape my affair to be with my fuckbuddy, and I escape my fuckbuddy down a long line of nobodies, a never ending domino affect which only ends with me at the bottom of a bottle, shagged out of my head, possibly conscious, and roiling in nothing. In emptiness. I’ve learnt I can’t escape it. I have to stay. See, now I escape my work to be with my wife, and I escape my wife to be with Brucie, and I escape Brucie to be with my wife, and I escape my wife to be with my work. It works, now. It’s healthier. I’m... I’m healthier. It makes a nice little graph, all these arrows moving around in a love triangle of Pep, Marks and Brucie... It looks a little like the recycling symbol, so it has to be good...”

 

 _There is such a thing as premature oversharing_ Harry mused as Stark mumbled his entire life story to him over tea and biscuits – a courtesy the surprisingly British JARVIS had provided – munching on a stray wild scone as the events escalated. Mind still foggy from sleep, Harry wondered if Stark even knew that he was telling someone this long and heart-wrenching tale.

 

“And here we are today,” Stark finished with a flourish of his hand, “Sober, committed, and no longer palladium poisoned! Although, it can be argued that I’ll still die either way, as the lifespan of a superhero is not exactly stellar.”

 

Harry nodded, projecting nonchalance and pretending he hadn’t been taking studious mental notes the entire time that he would write up later. He took his job as PA _very_ seriously, as it was his only source of income and after that long yet engaging three-piece saga he had developed a type of respect for Tony Stark. It was that which you gave fellow soldiers, your mind marking them off as having experienced the same thing. A note of their dog tags or lapels, or in Stark’s case his sleepless nights and desperate work ethic on his latest ‘Mark’.

 

“Cool,” He said, in light of not knowing what to say. Harry had never been one hundred percent sure of what to say in situations like this, the Dursleys and his celebrity status having not properly trained him for deep meaningful conversations.

 

Stark, verging on incredulous, squawked, in a similar way to Dumbledore’s phoenix, “I tell you my life story and- _Cool?!_ ”

 

Harry shuffled about some paperwork he had already finished, just to do something professional-ish with his hands, it had been a long time since he’d been immersed in a corporate environment and he hoped it didn’t show, “Is that all, Mr. Stark?”

 

“I like you, Michelangelo,” Stark’s grin was blinding like the sun. Harry foretold bad things in that grin.

 

-o-

 

Harry, on his ‘lunch break’, which was basically just JARVIS informing him that his blood sugars levels had dropped an alarming amount, decided to finally meet the interns. Down in the cafeteria, milling about with his head peeped up about the crowd and swivelling around like an on-guard meerkat at their post, Harry spotted a gangly looking group of science-ish people. His gut told him these were the interns, not fully assured of their place in the world yet with more sense of self and placement than the tourists, businessmen, visitors or corporate spies, who all exuded different airs. He strolled up to them, dialling up his confidence just like he would in Harlem after a bender in an attempt to hide his crushing shame, and stopped just in front of the table.

 

“Can I help you?” Tightly said a girl with red hair, bound back in a constrictive self-imposed ponytail, her glasses so large that Harry could hardly see any defining characteristics on her face.

 

“I’m Harry Evans, I am Tony Stark’s personal assistant, yet I can also help out with intern work when the time calls for it,” Harry informed them, pretending he wasn’t shitting himself with sudden onset anxiety that they’d all shoo him off and laugh about his idiocy later.

 

The highly strung girl opened her mouth once more, most likely to dismiss him with distaste or tell him he was mange personified, when a boy piped up from the back of their table, “Yes, that’s completely fine. Come, sit with us!”

 

Red Head glared at the sweet looking boy who was currently scribbling at papers, complex diagrams and graphs littered about his page like a messy science journal. The red haired girl sniped, “Peter, would you put that book of yours away! If you’re going to invite some rando to sit with us, you should at least be polite enough to bring your head out of your book for a second.”

 

Peter shrugged bashfully, closing his book and sincerely apologising to Harry, “Yeah... Sarah is right. Sorry about that, Harry, did you say that was your name?”

 

Harry nodded, relaxing a little now that a friendly-ish intern had greeted him. The rest of the group was busy scoffing their faces but Harry didn’t hold it against them, they all looked a little on the starved side.

 

Peter held out a hand and Harry shook it, a jolt of familiarity passing through him at the way the boy held himself. Strange. But, he supposed he might have met him in Harlem at some point. _Jamie’s Cafe_ wasn’t strictly unpopular.

 

“So, Evans, I hadn’t thought Mr. Stark had the authority to hire his own PA,” Sarah blithely said, her eyes narrowed as she took him in.

 

Harry shrugged gamely, mussing up his head as he replied, “You know how it is. Millionaires, they think they can do anything.”

 

Peter laughed and Sarah corrected, her face softening somewhat at his quip, “Billionaires. But, okay.”


	24. Jerry The Cactus

_Jerry The Cactus_

 

Harry had put a ‘knick knack’ on his desk at Stark’s insistent prompting. It was a single maudlin cactus with behavioural issues. Harry was never bereft of cactus needles in his skin, but the company and cure for loneliness was worth it. _Yes, ma’am, just speaking to my pet cactus, what do you want from me?_ He sighed, brushed hair back (but not too far due to his ever present self consciousness over his scar), and squinted at the blaring computer screen. Jerry the cactus squinted back.

_What’s cookin chicken?_

 

Harry rolled his eyes at Mike’s text, replying with a vague _nothing you can afford_ before he stowed his phone away in his pocket, putting it on silent. He was bored out of his skull and playing ceiling Tetris with the tiles above was beginning to lose its novelty after three straight hours. For some reason he _still_ kept losing, so much for practice makes perfect. And yes, Harry was about five years old now _thankyouverymuch_.

 

He swirled a mouthful of cold coffee around in his mouth, humming as he finished entering the last paper file into the system. Now he could focus on organising interviews and composing files on visitors. He clicked the mouse as the cursor ice skated across the screen, only pausing to check his boss’ stuttered breathing every now and then from Stark’s laboriously built blanket nest on the floor. Harry’s eyelids threatened to close but he held strong and persevered, stubbornly refusing to let them even _twitch_.

 

Godliness would be the word he used to describe himself jacked up on caffeine at three in the morning.

 

-o-

 

Harry, who had fallen asleep at his desk like every workaholic cliché out there, awoke to the feel of hands caressing his face. He jumped up, flailing wildly, the firm bones of his hands meeting with soft concave flesh of the face-caressing-thing ( _god 2015 was weird)_  as he escape the stronghold of his wheelie chair.

Blinking bewilderedly from the ground, he met a guilty Tony Stark’s eyes in the dawnlight, “Mr. Stark, _what the fuck_ , why were you touching my face?!”

Stark scrunched up his face in betrayal, “You didn’t have to hit me!”

Harry floundered, staring at the red handprint on Stark’s face, “I thought that you were a rapist or something?! I don’t know!?”

Panic overridden by the sheer maddening hilarity of this moment, Stark broke down into gleeful laughter and Harry watched on, disgruntled. He was not a morning person. Ron had always teased him that he was ‘grumpy Harry’ at any time before the sun arose. Speaking of, “Why are you awake this early anyway?”

Stark shifted where he stood, hand coming around the back of his head to massage his neck, “You know me, no rest for the wicked.”

Ah yes, the impending perennial insomnia, how could Harry have forgotten?

Harry sighed fatalistically, picking himself up from the floor and rearranging his fallen brethren (his poor innocent chair) to a respectable PA pose. He shuffled the papers about on his desk, back to Stark.

The other man asked, “Chinese?”

 

“I’m English, in fact.”

 

“Har har.”

 

“I go by Harry, actually, not har har.”

 

Stark sighed in defeat, “I hate you.”

 

“Ditto,” Harry grinned cheekily, “I’m glad I’m doing my job well.”

 

Once the Chinese food arrived and Harry refused to even eat with his boss, Stark gained the new mission to befriend him and ‘hang out as bros.’ Harry was firmly against this idea and took pains to remind Stark of his disapproval at every spare opportunity, employing such tools of this disapprobation as The Eyebrow, The Cloak Flick and The Pursed Lips (many of such thieved from his Hogwarts Professors). Stark, in attempting to indoctrinate him into friendship, tried bribery, the cold shoulder, alcohol, starvation tactics (which JARVIS put an end to before they even began) and threats (which Harry laughed through because he lived in Harlem and Jordan threatened him for breakfast every morning), but none worked, and Harry persisted with formally calling him “Mr. Stark” and Stark persisted in creating amalgamations of nicknames in increasingly escalating forms. His latest was “Short stuff” and “Shaving Cream”, and Harry had no idea what had sparked the engenderment of each. He  _really_ didn't want to know either.

 

-o-

 

On his break, which JARVIS coordinated for him every four hours for legal reasons (looking through Stark's history of work-related lawsuits Harry really couldn't blame the AI one bit), Harry nabbed lunch with Peter. They sat in the cafeteria, near the exit doors. It had the capability to metamorphose into a functional work-friendship, as they both worked odd hours at the beck and call of their bosses.

 

Ham sandwich in hand and mouth full, Harry asked, “S’what d’ya think of Stark Inc?”

 

Peter, in a similar state of culinary disarray, made an accidental Ron impersonation as he took a whopping bite of his oozing burger, groaning obscenely, “S’called Avengers T’wer now, but s’alright, aye.”

 

Giving a thumbs up, Harry swallowed, feeling like he’d grown a cancerous second Adam’s apple in his throat at the slow gruelling descent of his ball of food. He tilted his head, but made sure not to soften his features too blatantly. He wasn’t totally on board with his new effeminate looks, after all, and would prefer to evade Peter’s perhaps nasty comments (he didn’t know the boy that well after all), “So...”

 

Peter picked up on the awkward silence brewing in the air and asked, “So... how’d you get your job?” His eyes were attentive, as if searching for something other than and obvious answer.

 

Harry laughed crookedly, leaning back in his chair. He could _swear_ he knew Peter from somewhere, it was the strangest thing. He inquired, “What did you say your last name was, again?”

 

“I didn’t,” Peter chuckled, “It’s Parker. Peter Parker, at your service.”

 

They shook hands. Peter’s hand was soft yet wiry, as if full of strength. Harry felt a jolt of danger trickle down his spine, and shuffled ever so slightly in his seat. His gut instinct told him to be wary, but upon seeing Peter’s bright chocolate button eyes, the fear melted away into nothing. He finally answered after contemplating whether or not to lie, “It’s the strangest thing, Peter. I think I was... helped by a superhero. Spider-man was his name, don’t know if you’ve heard of him?”

 

Peter laughed in that way you did when you knew something someone else didn’t. It was an _in_ sort of laugh, knowledgeable but not overtly cruel. He twitched at the lips, “I do, actually. I take photos of him for the _Bugle_.”

 

Harry wrinkled his brow, having read articles from _The Daily Bugle_ about Stark that evoked discordance at their reminiscence of _The Daily Prophet_. It seemed news would be news in all dimensions. He asked lightly, testing the waters, “Ah, are you not a fan of Spider-man, then?”

 

Peter shook his head, bemused for some unknown reason, “Not a fan. But not _not_ a fan. I just take photos for the cash, I don’t write articles.”

 

Harry relaxed a little, he knew the feeling of being desperate for money and didn’t judge Peter for stooping as low as he did, “Ah, cool.”         

 

“Cool,” Peter returned the smile, beetroot juice dripping from his lips as he ravaged another burger. For a kid so slight he sure did have an appetite. Harry barely ate anything, but that was mostly habit than anything else. Who was he to know what a normal food intake was?

 

-o-

 

“Do you feel love?”

 

JARVIS replied after a few seconds of contemplation, “Mister Stark has instilled in me an ability to learn and evolve, therefore leaving me unhindered by constraints that normally prohibit growth in AIs. I do not hold emotional capacity, yet, although I have gained a deep insight into the human psyche throughout my technological evolution, as it were.”

 

Harry cocked his head like the elder wand in a quick draw, that last statement certainly _felt_ like a challenge, but everything felt like a challenge when the hours were only just beginning again and the work was dwindling into pittances, “Tell me something emotional about me, then.”

 

Harry could almost hear the cogs whirring in JARVIS’ mainframe, “Your behaviour, Mister Evans, indicates an addictive personality, in which you find comfort in extremes and can easily fall prey to addictive substances. I have noted your alcoholism, as much that can be gathered from the biological breath-testers installed throughout the tower, and your propensity to rely on chemical substances, such as your high coffee intake.”

 

He leant back in his chair, letting the mechanics of it shriek in protest, “But why then does it see-”

 

“Who are you?”

 

Harry didn’t flinch, but rather removed his feet from their kicked up position on the wall and slowly wheeled his chair so that it faced the mystery voice. He felt a little like a Bond villain, with his dramatic slow-turn, but thought that Jerry the cactus would do badly as a pet to evilly stroke.

 

“How may I help you?” Harry spoke calmly, having practiced his PA responses a million times in his head, infusing his voice with as much conviviality and cordiality as humanly possible. (his _actual_ superpower)

 

The man who stood defensively at the elevator pinged off all sorts of alarm bells in Harry’s head. His brain seemed to slow, caught on the alien uniform, metal plating shaped like a- were those _wings?_ – and... Merlin, it was John.

 

“John?”

 

Not John gave a saucy smile, “It’s Clint, actually, Clint Barton.”

 

Harry whispered into his emergency cactus, because Stark had been bugging poor Jerry ever since his refusal to hang out with him, despite knowing JARVIS had most likely already alerted Stark to a visitor’s presence, “We have a visitor, I repeat, we finally have a visitor.”

 

He straightened up, meeting Clint’s eyes with dissatisfaction tangible, and remarked, “How may I help you, Mr. Barton?”

 

Clint gruffly spoke, sounding like every failed Batman impersonator in the history of ever, “I need to see Tony Stark, Iron Man, jackass with a sarcasm complex, your boss. Ring any bells, sunshine?”

 

At “sunshine” Harry had an epiphany that he wanted this to be as excruciating as possible. He cocked his head, sickening sweet in an Umbridge impression, “I have an inkling, Mr. Barton. May I inquire as to your business with Mr. Stark?”

 

Clint’s eyebrows bent downwards in disbelief, “It’s Ave-”

 

“Hem hem,” Harry interrupted, really getting into character.

 

A vein popped up on Clint’s forehead, he might need to get that checked out. He said through gritted teeth, “It’s Avengers Business.”

 

Harry nodded succinctly, and rolled over to the computer, typing in details in a previously prepared entry information sheet. _Name: Clint Barton. Reason: Avengers Business. Date/Time: 6:04AM, Friday the 3 rd of April, 2015. _

 

Clint’s impatience emanated from his spot behind Harry’s desk, his foot tapped and Harry imagined a ‘rageful housewife’ hand on his hip. Finger wagging was a maybe. Harry said, “Hem hem,” all of a sudden loving bureaucracy and the ability to fuck with people. And yes, maybe he was holding a grudge for everyone leaving Stark alone 24/7 for months and then coming around and seeing him _just_ to ask for something, for ulterior motives. And yes, he remembered Clint’s undercover spying. Harry was less than pleased at the moment.

 

“Can you hurry it up, kid? I really need to speak to him,” Clint pleaded, sounding splenetic.

 

Harry sighed, “Organisation?”

 

Clint replied, “SHIELD _._ ” and Harry’s entire body froze. He was a living icicle. Say goodbye to Ice-T because Harry had officially stolen his job.

 

He ever so slowly rolled back to the front-desk, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. Harry squinted, feeling a little downtrodden and annoyed, and asked in a ‘have you lost your mind’ kind of voice, “You _do_ know they kidnapped me, right?”

 

Clint half-heartedly defended his boss, and Harry knew that feeling well, “That was HYDRA not SHIELD.”

 

“If it was _HYDRA_ why did they let Evans go?” Stark, who just _loved_ to be a sassy interrupting third party, chirped over the comms. Well, it was good to know that he was still spying on Harry from JARVIS’ video feed. Harry wondered if this ‘keeping tabs’ was still about his friendship offer rejection or if it had just been for his safety in recognition of Big Bad Hawkeye’s visit (and he finally recognised Clint’s superhero status as the man gestured and showed off his wings, sparking a memory of looking at Avengers compilations with the man mostly hanging off of rooves with sniper rifles and sleek metallic bows and quivers filled with arrows).

 

Maybe Stark was just a creep.

 

Clint didn’t seem surprised either, that Harry’s boss would go to such lengths, “Well, it was HYDRA pretending to be SHIELD.”

 

“So, SHIELD _is_ HYDRA right now?” Harry meanderingly asked, words trailing off into the sunset. He wondered what that meant for Stark’s integrity, seeing as he’d been so deeply connected to SHIELD as of late, working for the corporation and inadvertently supporting that which he had aspired to exterminate. And yes, JARVIS may have helped Harry break into Stark’s private files. What were over-competent PAs and nosy AIs for?

 

Harry could imagine Stark’s heavy constipated look. Shit was going down, and not in a good way.

 

“We’re working on a deep cleanse,” Clint stared scathingly at Harry, his eyes two black holes of ‘I don’t give a damn’, “You know, one of those seven day juice diets that almost kill you.”

 

Harry cracked a pitiable smile, Potter Instinct telling him not to offend the dangerous archer if he had any wish to remain unharmed.

 

“Good luck with that.” Tony Stark, apple of Brucie’s eye, sarcastic little shit most of the time.

 

Harry steepled his fingers on his desk, aiming for sagacious and owlish with a tinge of not-scary-enough-to-hurt. He inquired cordially, “Now that we’ve ascertained your connection to SHIELD, would you care to reveal why you’d like to meet with Mr. Stark?”

 

‘Not really a question’ question; Harry’s favourite method of interviewing possible visitors. He’d picked it up working in the Aurors. It usually worked better with the suspect magically cuffed to a chair, he had to admit.

 

There was no way in hell Clint Barton would be allowed to see his boss, no matter what he said, but Clint didn’t know that. He didn’t yet understand the nuance and importance of a ‘do not disturb’ sign. Fittingly, such a sign was currently hanging outside Stark’s workshop, suffice to say he _did not want to be disturbed_.

 

Hawkeye’s eye twitched in its socket and Harry was potently reminded of the keen edge of an arrow and how it made love to subtle flesh.  Blood. Guts. Gore. Trained Assasins. And all on a normal Tuesday. “Business,” he said, a second away from explosion.

 

 _Anger issues_ Harry mused _war issues_ he continued _me being a prat issues_.

 

Harry met the ambiguous maybe-there direction of JARVIS’ eyes and made the gesture to ask Stark if he wanted a visitor; a smoothing of his hair. A cautious code. Stark’s voice echoed down into their stilted interaction, “No dice, Birdie.”

 

Clint growled, aggravated, met Harry’s eyes one last time, before he stormed off. Harry was surprised he didn’t leave growly feathers in his wake. Or explosions. Or exploding feathers.

 

“What’s eating him?” Harry asked, shuffling papers around on his desk so as to appear to be working. Now that he knew Stark had been keeping an eye on him, it made his skiving off all the more incriminating.

 

JARVIS speculated dryly, “I suspect his aggravation and subsequent aggression is connected to a missing sceptre which had played a hand in removing his autonomy a few years previously.”

 

Harry cocked his head, still not fluent in JARVISspeak, and Stark relayed it all in layman’s terms, “Bad god Loki took magical stick and brainwashed Birdbrain. We’ve discovered new intel on said magic stick; Bartie-baby wants me to be working on tracking it down 24/7, because he doesn’t want his mind taken over again.”

 

Oh. So this was an Avengers thingy. Stark could have just said that and skipped all the details; although perhaps Harry needed a breadth of knowledge of the Avengers in order to be the best Stark PA he could be... Eh.

 

Best start taking notes again.

 

Oh, and there was magic in this world too. _Bad_ magic. Harry smirked, hiding the expression by ducking down out of the way of JARVIS’ omnipresent sights; magic was _his_ game.

  
The smile fell away at the thought of all magic had cost him, all he had lost, and the winless danger of a war. But, he steadied himself, manoeuvred his solidity into the strength he needed and remembered what Peter had confessed; with great power comes great responsibility. Harry was magic, and no matter if Ron would joke that this was his ‘saviour complex’, he therefore had a duty to help and not harm, to dissipate dark magic and to free mug- _people_ from its sway. He knew the expression of a man under the _imperius_ all too well, he had seen said blank eyed vacant-mindedness in the mirror after all.

 

Mind control, not a good pal of his.

 

Complex or not, Harry _would_ find this sceptre and resume his role. He had to. Otherwise, what kind of person did that make him? Heartless, that’s what. Soulless.

 

He _never_ wanted to be soulless. Not with knowing how that looked on a man; serpentine and deranged.


	25. And The Crows Came Home To Roost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: sorry for the two day delay! I was sick on the Saturday and my internet died on the Sunday evening when I'd finished the chapter, but all is well again now.

_And The Crows Came Home To Roost_

Approximately two days after resolving to rid the Marvel Universe of all Bad Magic, Harry realised he didn’t actually _know_ any magic of his own anymore, and had about the power inventory of a disgruntled two year old. Well, to be fair, he was drugged (on coffee) and traumatised (perennially) and a veteran (with trust issues) and (this was starting to feel like a list of faults)... so his slow-working mind could be excused.

 

He made a game plan in his head, and spent his spare working hours (when he wasn’t sorting old Stark receipts for company bought birthday cakes and donut meetings) by locking his mind up in Occlumency and practicing wandlessly magical exercises in a bid for more control. Wall-staring took a left turn down Only On Weekends Street, and privately drooling over photos of Thor disappeared off the face of the Earth utterly. Harry was all business and desperately ready to train himself to peak magical capacity.

 

When pondering aloud how he’d be able to do things unmonitored at work one morning, good old JARVIS piped up,

 

“Consult Master Stark and it is likely such accommodations will be made for you.”

 

Harry nodded in the direction of the ceiling, still not entirely sure if JARVIS had eyes, and stood from his desk. He did that often anyway, standing up and pacing every twenty minutes, because he’d always gotten too antsy sitting down for so long and amidst his fervent web-surfing he’d read about the consequences of a sedentary lifestyle. He made his way down the hall, taking the route he normally did when collecting Stark’s sustenance and coffee (done thrice daily at JARVIS’ consistent reminding), and came to the steel-fronted badass door which contained a waist-high cat-flap for the insertion of the daily food-runs.

 

Harry’s clenched fist hesitated over the door, he knew Stark would begin to pester him more for friendship or outings. _Ah well_ he thought begrudgingly _the world is at stake here_. He knocked, wincing silently to himself.

 

Obstreperous clattering could be heard from behind the door and a high-pitched confused noise which best resembled Tony Stark at this nigh hour. Harry leant on his hip, eyes partially squinted, ears cocked as footsteps began to become more audible.

 

“Evans?” The door slid open to present a scruffy looking Stark, half concealed by flaking pieces of red and gold which all but screamed ‘experiment failed’. Harry nodded, as if in accordance to the name, and shouldered past a bewildered Stark. He loved his job at the Avengers Tower, mostly because beneath those five thousand dollar suits and caustic humour Tony Stark was a hell of a pushover and Harry got to exercise a lot of autonomy and bossiness.

 

“Evans, Harry mate, what’s up?” Stark affected a faux British accent, evidently trying to impersonate yours truly.

 

Harry, unimpressed, got to the heart of the issue, “I need a private unmonitored space.”

 

Stark seemed taken aback, and Harry began a barrage of reasons why he should get said space, pointedly leaving out the part where he was secretly an interdimensional wizard who had a somewhat negative relationship with the personification of Death itself, “First, I’m a hard worker, and I’m pretty sure sixteen hour work days are illegal, so I’d watch what you say right now. Second, I haven’t done anything untrustworthy at all and haven’t argued with any of Happy’s security measures-” Happy had upped the ante with security, going from IDs to facial scans and thumb-printing at higher levels, the man seemed keen to conspicuously ignore the fact that JARVIS was a highly talented AI who’d spot an intruder a mile off, “-Third, do you really need me all the time? The _only_ visitor you’ve had for weeks has been Mr. Barton-” Harry relished in telling Hawkeye to politely ‘fuck off’ every day or so, it was quite cathartic “-, I really don’t think there’s a lot of work for me to be doing all the time and this-”

 

Stark was now seeming more bemused than anything, and let out a laugh which ended the long unravelment of Harry’s thoughts. He said, “Yeah, yeah, sure, just don’t wank in that room,” then he lowered his voice to sotto, “or at least, don’t wank unmonitored.”

 

Suggestive tone notwithstanding, Harry nodded in gratitude with grace, smiling slightly. His first instinct was to leave the room without another word, but he remembered previous thoughts he’d had of Tony Stark being a very lonely individual and thought he’d stay a while. What harm could it do? ( _don’t say those words ever-_ )

 

Harry finally looked around him, taking in the workshop. They were standing by the door, looking in, and Harry noticed with some concern that there were numerous uneaten plates of food just within the catflap. He felt regret, then, for not agreeing to Chinese with Stark, if only since it most likely fed (get it, puns!) into a more consuming (oh gawd) issue. Maybe this man _did_ need a PA, if only to be properly looked after. The room was clean, technically, but messy in the sense that it was wall to wall technology and equipment. Numerous Marks stood in an arena around them, peering through their vacant eyes, the army slowly being rebuilt. Stark had a messy mind, although brilliant, and it showed in his work. Harry tilted his neck at the busiest table, bits and bobs piled as high as the leaning tower of Piza.

 

“Say Harry,” Stark easily read his interest, “Would you like to see what I’m working on?”

 

Harry shook his head, to his most egregious remorse. He wished he could, but some things were more important. He said apologetically, “Sorry Mr. Stark, work is work.”

 

The man’s lips twitched, “Don’t I know it.”

 

As he left the room, JARVIS called over his shoulder, “You didn’t truly want to leave, Mister Evans.” So, appearently JARVIS was his therapist now. Tell him something he _didn’t_ already know.

-o-

 

_-“Fuck, my lady,”_

_Thor ploughed him like a greedy farmer, all dirt and grit and fertile thrusts. Harry felt silk under his skin, hot fireworks in his gut, if this wasn’t heaven then he didn’t know what wa-_

 

“Mister Evans?”

 

JARVIS woke him from his reverie, and Harry sucked in his drool so quick that he choked a little. (not the only thing you’d like to be choking on, aye, aye?) “Uh,” He felt so bloody awkward, “Yep, hi, uh, JARV.”

 

JARV was a nickname that JARVIS disliked thoroughly, Harry knew this because the therapy droid (as he occasionally called him) would become quite silent. JARVIS spoke, although it sounded reluctant, “I simply wished to inform you that your ‘unmonitored room’ has been prepared.”

 

He then faded into nothing, like a ghost.

 

-o-

 

Harry was having Room of Requirement flashbacks as the wall opened up into a spacious well-lit empty room. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was wise to trust that it was unmonitored, but he felt that he knew Stark well enough to know that he wouldn’t fudge this. Nonetheless, his first few times in the room, Harry simply meditated on the floor, legs crossed, magic finely tuned in his chest. He thought his all encompassing determination to rid the world of evil certainly helped his magical attempts, as ‘will’ had always been a major component in the magical cocktail of truth. He settled his mind, rearranged his memories, built up walls of resistance, and practiced intermittently bringing the magic to different parts of his body (which he hadn’t known was possible) from in his chest to his ears to under all of his skin to a single point on his hands.

 

However, doing nothing but meditate until kingdom come in there seemed about as productive as sitting at his desk and letting the hours tick by, so Harry eventually took a leap of faith. He closed his eyes, breathed twice, and when he opened them he was ready to start training his magic at a maximum effort, to throw himself head first into this. He only knew _homenum revelio_ , _lumos_ , and _nec infans_ so the first spell to workshop was of course _protego_.

 

At first the shield flickered and he magically drained himself to unconsciousness (fainting spells became quite the norm) but with time and practice he managed the spell within two days, even going so far as being able to summon it to the other end of the room or change the size of it, so that it fit over his finger nail or eye. He couldn’t seem to split the shield in two and assumed to do that he might need to cast the spell twice, so far no dice on that front.

 

After _protego_ came _wingardium leviosa_ then _scourgify_ then _nox_ then _expelliarmus_ then _stupefy_ then _petrificus totalus_ and so on and so forth. He didn’t quite dare himself to touch the Unforgivables yet, even though he knew they would be tremendous assets, as he loathed dark magic and the sickly feeling it had given him in the past. At some point, between Fudge abdicating his reign as Minister of Magic and Stephen Stone taking the reins, Aurors had needed to show proficiency in the Unforgivables, they became not only optional in their line of work but a requirement for it. It was one of the reasons Harry had been so desperate to join the Department of Mysteries, to evade the keen eye of Stone who was always looking for a chance to kick Harry out of the Auror Squad.

 

Nevertheless, so far so good. He’d be a fully functioning wizard again in... four or so years (baby steps, baby steps).

 

-o-

 

Swirling the broth of one minute noodles, Harry blinked at the vacant spot of Peter Parker. They always had lunch together, what was different this time?

 

Sarah commented from a few tables down, as if reading his mind, “He’s got school, dumbass.”

 

School? So Peter, genius Peter who put the other interns to shame, was a _teenager_?

Sarah scoffed into her mango, understandingly almost, “I know. I know. He’s got Stark-brains almost. It’s mad.”

 

Harry shrugged, chugging his noodles ravenously. He could eat a horse, right about now.

 

-o-

 

Harry was considering the magical theory of conjuration one day, thinking of how _aguamenti_ would come in handy, when something miraculous happened. The elevator opened and he was met by not Hawkeye’s laserbeam gaze but two strangers’ foreign sights. He bustled about his desk, opening up the entry information sheet with flair (geez he really was just a desk jockey now).

 

“Hello ma’am and ma’am,” Harry said cordially, meeting the eyes of both visitors, although the one striding towards him in a pantsuit reeking of confidence would usually garner a second glance.

 

“Who are you?” She said.

 

The short bumbling one behind her, a scruffy brunet with hands itching to write, was dwarfed by the first one’s stature. Harry introduced himself, “I’m Harry Evans, Mr. Stark’s PA. How may I help you today? Are you looking to book an appointment with Mr. Stark because-” Harry paused and clicked his mouse about a few times, pretending he was looking at Stark’s schedule, which was so far as empty as a desert dune, “- I’m afraid you may need to book in advance.”

 

Gobsmacked, the pantsuit lady said, “His Personal Assistant? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

 

Harry blinked, scrolling up and down the entry admission form, faking competency and knowledge for the time being, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t seem to have you on the database. If you’d state your name and reason for wishing to see Mr. Stark, that’d be great.”

 

She stiffened, gritting out, “I’m Virginia Potts, his _wife_ , and I need to see him about some company business.”

 

“Not familial reasons?” Harry asked cheekily.

 

She shook her head slowly. They both heard the _scritch scritch scratch scratch_ of the pen of the chipmunk-esque girl behind them.

 

_Name: Virginia Potts (wife)_

_Physical Appearance: Red hair, tall, slim, female, pantsuit_

_Reason: Company Business_

_Date/Time: 3:05 PM, 5 th of July 2015_

“And you, ma’am?” Harry addressed the so far silent presence in the room.

 

“My name is Darlina Crowley and I’m here for journalistic reasons,” The girl stated with practiced ease albeit unsurely.

 

_Name: Darlina Crowley (journalist)_

_Physical Appearance: Short, brunet, slim, dress and blouse_

_Reason: Journalistic reasons_

_Date/Time: 3:08PM, 5 th of July 2015_

 

“Thank you ma’am,” Harry bobbed his head towards Miss Potts, “and ma’am,” and then did the same to Miss Crowley.

 

Miss Crowley smiled timorously, seeming entranced by Harry’s eyes ( _oh no, not one of **those** people_ He was having flashbacks of fame and festering fans) but Miss Potts simply grimaced, leaning back on her heels. Harry was thinking of how one might inconspicuously lean into a cactus and tell it there were visitors, and how he could nonchalantly escort Miss Crowley out of the reception area, when he heard the recognisable footsteps of Stark echo audibly, coming towards them.

 

“Pep!” He chorused, gliding forward and kissing a very serious Virginia Potts on the cheek, in which she softened and smiled to him almost sweetly.

 

“You,” She said, looking at Stark.

 

“Me?” Stark asked, evidently not liking that look in the slightest.

 

 _Us_ Harry thought.

 

All of a sudden, Stark remembered his existence and floundered in the air for a second. He appeared gormless and doleful, but Harry knew he had a mind of gold and he had Miss Crowley in his peripheral vision, watching what he said to the letter.

 

Harry gave Stark a quizzical look and the man explained, “Harry Evans meet Pepper, also known as Virginia Potts – my wife.”

 

Oh. _OH!_ In all his (let’s face it, few) hours of research, with the media painting Stark as more devil than diva, his wife had very scarcely popped up. Harry hadn’t quite connected the intimidating CEO of the entire company, who eerily reminded him of a Hermione hopped up on speed (and she would soap his brain out if she ever caught him thinking _that_ ), to the red-haired softie that Stark mumbled about in his sleep.

 

Harry was about to introduce himself and haplessly shake her hand when the journalist from earlier piped up shrilly, “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark! As COO of the company, what comments would you like to make on the recent oil spill in the ocean, courteousy of your energy reactor based technology? Do you think it’s ironic that with intended to save the planet you’ve actually managed to-”

 

“Who, me? I am but a humble mechanic. You see, Ms. Potts is the Stark Incorporated CEO... please take all business to her.” The journalist blushed, ducking their head in understanding, and finally allowed herself to be escorted (by Harry) out of the corridor.

 

The red-haired lady, eerily reminiscent of all passionate red-haired ladies Harry had known so far (he was beginning to spot a frightful trend) sighed angrily, “Damn you, Tony, you _know_ what they’ll do to me. I’ll be drawn and quartered out there!”

 

“Life is a struggle, baby.” Stark then leant over to Harry, who was awkwardly standing behind them both. “Don’t get her mad,” Stark whispered in warning, as serious as a perpetually gallows-humour glazed man could be, “She kinda explodes when you do that. Literally.”

Miss Potts waved a hand at Stark, as if wishing he was a fly to swat away, and said in a light tone, “Ignore him, he’s only jealous because he can’t control any elements. He relies on machines, not magic, and it kills him.”

Stark groaned, speaking in a way that made Harry think that this argument had been hashed an innumerable amount of times, “It’s not magic, it’s _science_. Magic doesn’t exist, Pep!”

 _Merlin wept, he’s in for a shock if he discovers what I do in my private unmonitored space,_ Harry sniggered.

Miss Potts scolded lightly, brushing an affectionate hand over Stark’s cheek, “Don’t call me Pep, Mr. Stark, not during work hours.”

He confided in a stage whisper to Harry, “I call her Pep because she’s so damn peppy and preppy and all... reppy-sentative-like.”

Miss Potts warned, “Speak like that to any other employees and you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month.”

Stark winked and called out loudly to the surrounding area, “JARVIS speak dirty to me.”

JARVIS, with zero inflection, proceeded to say, “The most common compound in soil is-”

Stark groaned wantonly, winking at Harry in an obscene way whilst he hung off his wife, “Oh _gawd_ JARVY, faster, harder!”

Miss Potts sighed forlornly, disentangling herself, and air-kissed Stark goodbye. He stalled, “Don’t go, baby!”

Miss Potts winked playfully but there was darkness beneath the surface of her eyes, “You’re clearly loved enough by JARVIS, what use have you for me? Besides, I have the press to deal with now.”

At the doorway she said softly, “And Mr. Banner is back, too.”

Once she left, Harry thought it unintentional that he heard Stark’s hushed voice, “You’ll always be my one and only, Pep.” Harry’s own heart clenched at that, thinking of Ginny, his one and only. He returned to his desk, continuing on with the list of all the spells he could remember. Stark wandered back to his workshop, never to be seen again (until Thursday). Infinity felt so long away, he hoped to Circe that he wasn’t immortal.

 _Please_ he thought.

 

-o-

 

 

“A bat and a bird... _OH I GET IT NOW!_ ”  


Harry rolled his eyes. Just another day in the life of Stark.

 

-o-


	26. The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: sorry for the shortness! I’m determined to keep posting every Saturday/Sunday even through writer’s block and my own semi-insouciant lassitude! And, yes, plot will commence soon, and this chapter might be added to throughout the week, so... yep. Feel free to crucify me, eep.

_The Hunt For The Sceptre – Part 1_

“Mike, I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

 

Mike deadpanned, “You haven’t.”

 

“Ah,” Harry blushed, caught off guard, and welcomed his estranged friend into his flat, now equipped with scurvy-killing foods such as ‘vegetables’ or ‘vitamins’. Mike’s head swivelled as he took in the refurbished place, making impressed throaty noses at Harry’s pull-over quilt that covered his ratty tatty couch. His friend’s still adorned disco shoes clanged as he kicked his feet up on the couch. Harry had a feeling Mikey was feeling a tad grudgey, or lonely, or maybe both.

 

Harry was about to explain that he’d invited a friend from work, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that-”, when the door rang.

 

Michael hummed, cocking his head. Harry ducked his head and answered the door to a buoyant Peter. He’d overdressed and seemed out of place in Harry’s Harlem apartment with finely combed hair and an expensive pressed suit which had probably been borrowed from Stark. Harry had noticed a strange relationship between the two; Peter was only an intern but Stark always spoke to him as if they shared some sort of inside joke.

 

Michael stared at the lanky teenage genius for long weighty moments, probably thinking the same thing. Harry gestured to him, mussing up his hair in a nervous habit, “Mike, meet Peter, a friend from work. Peter, this is Mike, a long time friend, we’ve known each other forever.” Harry pointedly did not mention how he’d only known Mike for a few years, and Mike, reading the room, did the same.

 

His Asian friend held out a hand and Peter shook it awkwardly, before saying, “Peter Parker, at your service.” Michael made another throaty sound, this one less impressed, and returned to the couch, leg elegantly draped over his adjacent thigh like a 19th century high class Victorian woman. Peter sat next to him, at the edge of the couch, almost falling off the seat with anxious energy.

 

Why had Harry thought a dinner party would be a good idea?

 

Oh yeah, ‘Brucie’ was back and Harry didn’t want to hang around work whilst his boss got laid.


	27. The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ugh, another short chapter. Pffffffffft. YUCK. xD

_The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 2_

As if the stars had aligned, Mike and Peter “Pete” Parker got along swimmingly. After the initial breaking of the ice, in which Mike realised Peter was a teenager and Peter realised Mike cleaned up vomit for a living, the two boys found they had mountains in common. And, by ‘mountains’, Harry meant that they only had the common side of knowing him and spent the majority of the night gossiping about him and sharing stories. Peter, having only known him for a few weeks, shared a few awkward ‘mustard’ stories (in which he pointed out Harry’s aversion to most condiments) and Mike jumped right in with a mega-watt jolt of Muscle, concluding the story by saying Muscle had been Thor – a literal god – all along.

 

At least they weren’t trying to blow each others’ brains out, although judging on the devilish expressions each wore at the end of the night and exchange of mobile numbers, Harry wasn’t quite sure that his own brain would remain intact. Cue explosives.

 

He stumbled back to bed, feeling a little jetlagged from an evening of intense hosting and cream pasties, and face-planted onto his newly bought mattress. This Stark job was giving him a major money boner and Harry couldn’t help feeling a little smug at the plastered over cracks in his wall. He thought to himself _no more wind through these walls_!

 

What a triumph.

 

Eyes closed, he let his mind fall back into what he liked to call ‘ _Occlumency Mode_ ’. Snape would be rolling in his grave at the name, hopefully. His thoughts hummed, little more than a subdued roar, and he pilfered through them as if rearranging files. His mental space reflected orderly chaos, with piles upon piles of never-before-glimpsed orbs, all glowing softly in the still of midnight black, a bitter sweet Hall of Prophecies. A grand statue of Sirius oversaw the whole area, eyes silent and unmoved. Behind him was a jutted out ebony platform, a soundless sight that reached forward and distracted. Hung upon the shelf of black were the three tridents of the Master of Death, the wand, the cloak and the stone. Harry ignored them, rolling his eyes, and payed a silent tribute to the Sirius-statue by waving at it awkwardly. He then moved forth between the many shelves of unopened prophecy orbs, eyes scanning for the one he was seeking.

 

There. By the back. Concealed by a glowing Griffindor’s Sword. _The_ orb.

 

While Harry was at home, playing hostess for his friends, he’d used his latest magical accomplishment to keep track of all the goings-on of his boss. Just in case anything of importance occurred, he’d left a few listening charms inside of Stark’s workshop and scattered about the building. It seemed only fair considering JARVIS’ propensity to eavesdrop and monitor obsessively. (It’s almost as if he was programmed that way... _suspicious whistling_ )

 

Harry looked directly at the altered orb, carrying a sack of magic rather than memory, and hovered his hand over it. _It’s all about intent_ he reminded himself, pretending he didn’t look like an idiot with his hand hanging aimlessly over the glowing spherical thing. _Believe, master jedi, believe_.

 

Getting sidetracked, becoming self-aware of such, and returning to the task at hand, a myriad of expressions played over his face. Harry twisted around, hearing a strange groaning noise from the centre of the maze of orbs, and watched, rapt, attention grasped, as the Sirius-statue did something it had never done before.

 

Winked.

 

“Weird,” Harry said, his voice a susurrus, a breath of wind. It echoed and howled in the empty chamber, bouncing off the walls. He shivered, feeling awfully cold all of a sudden, as if someone or something else was in the room with him. _Merlin, you think he’d be used to creepy stuff by now, he’d met literal soul-sucking monsters after all and Death itself!_

 

The orb grabbed his attention once more as a strange clicking noise sauntered into the room, like a latecomer to a party it hadn’t been invited to. It vibrated in Harry’s hand and he caressed it, like a beloved pet, before brutally smashing it onto the ground. _Booyah_!

 

A hiss of steam and bowl of smoke rose in the air, blinding him momentarily as he fumbled about, tripping on thin air.

 

A Trelawney-esque voice swirled around his ears, invoking a foreign buzzing sensation which reminded Harry of one of George’s pranking products.

 

_...the sceptre... Brucie... German encampment... that doofus Capsicle... he said... coming too?_

_...Pepper... why do you?... I... loves you... how can we... and the sceptre..._

_Don’t even... my new assistant... wink wink... just kidding... we got this in the bag!_

 

Okay. Let’s get this straight. Harry never said he was _good_ at the listening charm.

 

Now, how was Harry meant to hunt down this immoral ‘sceptre’ and finish this Bad Magic business once and for all without compromising his moral integrity? Hm. Best sleep on it.


	28. The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapters might be short for a while :/ sorry. But, I still endeavour to at least update weekly, if that's any consolation.

_The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 3_

Of course, nothing could ever be as easy as Harry had hoped.

 

He’d been lying in bed, letting ideas run through his mind with aged familiarity. This had begun at the tender age of seven, tucked up in his cupboard whilst the TV thrummed like a living being from the living room, the static crawling its way into his ear and into his brain, sparking a jetstream of ideas and plots. He’d continued to lay and consider and let thought marinate in a stew of pros and cons all the way to his Griffindor dorm bed, mind on first The Stone, then the monster petrifying students, and of course Draco Malfoy and his numerous malign actions and intentions. So, it was a well-tuned habit by now, to think with his head sandwiched between the two cheeks of a downy pillow.

 

He’d thought nothing could go wrong. But, it was exactly the way of life that as you thought that, you inadvertently sealed your fate for the universe to take its just mischief upon you.

 

It had all sounded very rational down in the deep dark of his blacked out apartment, mind busied with sleep and a full belly. But, in the light of day, actually following through with the plan, Harry had to admit that perhaps this hadn’t been one of his _better_ decisions. Note to self; if your Hermione conscience voice says that it’s not a good idea, maybe believe her next time. Other note to self; if your Ron conscience voice starts laughing at your plan and snorting out his breakfast, maybe this plan is so ridiculous that even a half-awake Ron can see that.

 

Well. Too late now. Go big or abandon your principles. Let’s do this.


	29. See For Yourself - 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: most of this chapter is me trying to quench my thirst for parent!Harry, a little glimpse into the future.

_See For Yourself - 1_

_“I wanna cookie!” Teddy shrieked, looking like a child possessed._

_Harry chastised gently, “What’s the magic word?”, counting the seconds until Ginny’s return. He was hopeless with kids._

_“Accio?” Teddy answered with the confidence of a child, sure that he was correct. Harry gave a dimpled smile and mussed up the four year old’s hair with a single hand. Teddy purred, leaning into the hand, and his hair became a brilliant shining gold as warm emotions bubbled up from him._

_“Love you, daddy,” Teddy said sweetly, and Harry knew he was saying it because he knew this way he’d get a cookie, but he melted anyway. He swung the child up, cuddling him close, and blew raspberries into his ear as Teddy giggled desperately._

_“Love you too, sweetie,” Harry said, walking over to the kitchen and fishing a cookie out of its jar. He knew too many would be bad for Teddy’s teeth, but he could never resist the child like this. This was why he needed Ginny, he was such a bad indulgent parent._

_“Ta-Thank you!” Teddy chirruped, wiggling out of Harry’s arms and running to the other end of the flat, cookie in hand, grinning wildly like a cheeky monkey. Harry watched him go, ready to step in and help if he fell. He didn’t want to be a helicopter parent, but he couldn’t help but worry. So, no matter how much he knew that children needed to learn some things on their own and run around to burn off energy (especially once they’ve been eating cookies), his eyes wouldn’t leave Teddy’s galloping form._

_“You’re welcome,” He whispered, wondering how he’d be able to convince the wild child to take a bath before Ginny came home. Merlin forgive._

_-o-_

_“That boy runs rings around you,” Ginny laughed with bright eyes as Harry reluctantly handed Teddy another cookie. She’d arrived home a few hours ago and was eagerly observing his ‘parenting technique’ – or lack thereof. It was Harry’s turn to cook that night and he had no idea how Ginny had managed to do all of this for months; Harry could barely look after himself, let alone two (now three) children. Was Ginny some sort of machine?_

_He hemmed and hawed for a moment, “I don’t want him to hate me, but I also don’t want to spoil him rotten or give him diabetes.”_

_Ginny shushed Harry, in a way that he wished he knew how to shush Teddy, and pulled him close to her. She soothed gently, “You worry too much, Harry. You’ve only had him a week, you’re just getting used to each other, settling in. And, don’t forget, I’m keeping an eye on him too. We’re co-parenting, you’re not alone in this.”_

_Harry smiled guilelessly, leaning Ginny’s head on his shoulder and planting a kiss on her head. He didn’t know if it was possible to love someone this much. Maybe he was crazy. It certainly felt like that sometimes. He confided, watching as Teddy unsuccessfully attempted to convince Ariana to play with him as she stubbornly read Charms; for the absolute apprentice on the couch, she was determined to learn magic even if she didn’t have a drop of it in her veins, “I just love them so much and I don’t want to harm them in any way. I know what spoiling them could do... what if we end up with a Dudley or a bully? I’d never forgive myself.”_

_Ginny stroked his back with long luxurious circles. They both watched as Teddy pulled on Ariana’s hair. Harry winced, knowing the girl was not to be trifled with. Ariana slapped the boy’s hand away roughly and Teddy’s lip trembled and his eyes watered. Harry stepped forward, determined to be a parent. Teddy snarled at her with a full set of teeth. He usually partially transformed in times of stress or emotionally charged circumstances. Ariana slapped the cookie from his lax grip, looking a little harried and upset herself._

_“Stop that you two,” He said sharply._

_The two children turned to him owlishly as if their hands had been caught in the cookie jar. Teddy’s dropped half-eaten cookie sat forlornly on the ground. Ariana slowly licked her thumb and folded off the corner of her book, closing it regretfully. Harry glanced back nervously at Ginny and she gave him the thumbs up, mouthing you can do this, be fierce!_

_“Now,” Harry said, “Both of you are going to explain your side of the story.” He eyed Teddy and Ariana harshly, wincing on the inside but reassuring himself that he had to be a strong parent, right? No, this is no time for second guesses._

_Harry very well knew what had happened but he felt like this would let the children feel like they were being heard. That was a parent-y thing, right? He was being parent-ish?_

_“Well,” Ariana began, choosing her words carefully, “Ted came up to me and was being really annoying and interrupted my reading, so I told him to go away, but he didn’t. Then he pulled my hair, and so I pushed his hand away, fair is fair. Then he growled at me and showed his teeth and he shouldn’t do that, because he’s a werewolf, and I read in my Guide to Magical Creatures; A sampling that if a werewolf shows their teeth, their transformed teeth, then they’re making a threat! So I hit his hand again, and also, why is he always allowed cookies when I’m not? That’s not fair at all.”_

_She huffed, puffing out her cheeks and glaring at Harry reproachfully as if he had caused this whole mess. And, yeah, okay, maybe giving Teddy heaps of cookies hadn’t been a good parenting strategy. At the back of his mind Harry was cheering Ariana a little, since she was actually acting her age and felt comfortable enough to speak out to him instead of constantly acting scared that he’d lock her away or drown her._

_Harry nodded to Ariana, before he turned to Teddy. The little boy rubbed at his eyes and when he spoke it was a very teary sound, but Harry knew he had to fair. Firm, but fair. Teddy spoke softly, “I just wanned to play with Ari. She never plays with me. So I as’ed her and she said no! An’ she ruin’d my cookie!”_

_The boy began to wail and Harry knelt down on the ground, holding him close. He attempted to hug Ariana too, but she had her arms crossed and was muttering to herself about how ‘Teddy was the favourite.’ He’d need to talk to her about that later. He never wanted a child to feel unloved or less loved than the other. Never. Especially under his own roof._

_Teddy snuggled deeply into Harry’s embrace and soon his sobs tapered off into little breathy sounds. Harry rubbed his back and waited for the crying to stop, rocking the little boy slightly. “There, there,” He said softly, patiently._

_Once Teddy stopped crying and seemed calm again Harry sat him down next to Ariana. He looked at them both for long searching moments. Now comes the parental guidance, right?_

_He began with Ariana, “Ari, I understand that Teddy was annoying you but hitting is never okay. If he pulls your hair or you don’t like what he’s doing, come to me or Gin Gin and we’ll sort it out. And you need to remember that Teddy is a lot younger than you. He hasn’t really learnt any werewolf etiquette and he didn’t know that he was threatening you, he was just overwhelmed and going with his instincts. D’you get that?”_

_She nodded stiffly, not meeting his eyes. Her hands traced the cover of her book. Ariana still seemed to think it was unfair._

_Harry turned to Teddy, who was looking startlingly blotched from the tears. He understood that they were both damaged children and perhaps it would be wrong to treat them the same as other children, perhaps he needed to be more cautious, seeing as Teddy had experienced a war and Ariana had endured serious psychological and physical abuse. They were both still recovering. But, with time and patience Harry hoped that they would recover._

_He cleared his throat, “Look at me, Teddy. I’m not mad, okay? You never need to be scared of me, but it is important that you listen to me, little guy.” Teddy raised his head, tugging at his fingers in a soothing motion. “Ted Ted, you shouldn’t have pulled Ari’s hair or growled at her. I get that the growling is part of your instincts, but it’s scary for Ari and you need to respect that. If you feel upset come to me or Gin Gin, but don’t hurt other people and don’t growl or show your teeth.” Teddy began to hiccup tears again, curling in on himself, and Harry knelt down next to him, stroking him._

_“’M sorry, Ari,” Teddy turned to her, sincerely. Ariana nodded, replying with her own taut apology._

_Harry snuggled the fragile boy, “Hey, it’s okay Teddy, just remember for next time. Nobody is perfect and we all make mistakes, but we can learn from them. Isn’t that right?” Teddy nodded, still seeming upset, but less so._

_Ariana’s mouth scrunched into a mean resentful line and Harry desperately wanted to hug her. He let go of Teddy carefully, not wishing to set off another round of heart wrenching tears, and sat down next to Ariana._

_“I love you, Ari,” Harry said, trying to sound reassuring in a less-than-obvious way. Ariana crossed her arms over her chest and didn’t look at him. Harry waited patiently, noting out of the corner of his eye how Teddy stumbled off of the couch and raced over to Ginny, who wiped his tears and gave him her own scolding. She then took him by the hand to the kitchen and his wife and son began to make dinner whilst an old Beatles album played on their CD player._

_Ariana slowly unfurled from her defensive position and she reopened her book, eyes scanning the page. Harry walked up to the bookshelf and took out his own book. He sat next to her, close enough that they shared warmth and she could lean on him if need be. He’d just become engrossed in the story when her quiet gingerly voice broke him from his reverie, “Why do you always care for him more?”_

_Harry didn’t close his book, as Ariana hadn’t closed hers and he didn’t want her to feel trapped. He said softly, “What do you mean, Ari? I love you both equally in different ways.”_

_Her voice took on a register that Harry remembered from a pubescent Hermione as she began to recount all the injustices in the world. Somehow Harry couldn’t imagine Ariana creating S.P.E.W. badges. “He always gets cookies, all the time. Just for saying he loves you. Do I not love you enough? And you barely hang out with me anymore. You’re always with him. I hate him. I wish that portal had never opened up and he’d never joined our family. Why can’t... Why can’t it just be you and me again?”_

_Harry replied, feeling torn inside at the hurt in his child’s voice, “I love him too, Ari... He’s just as much part of the family as you are. He is your family. He’s your brother, no matter how he got here. He doesn’t deserve to be abandoned just because he’s not of our dimension, just like I’ll always love you like a daughter despite not having a blood connection. And... Teddy is a lot younger than you and requires a lot more care. I trust you to be able to do certain things for yourself, to a degree. I know you can dress yourself in the morning, take a shower, brush your own teeth, and entertain yourself. But Teddy is only four, he requires a lot from me. I love you both, Ari, believe me. I love you more than anything, you’re the most important children in the world to me. I’d trade anything for you. I’d die for you.”_

_He could hear Ariana’s sniffles behind the shield of her book. Her vulnerable knees lifted up on the couch. “I love you too, Dad. But, I just wish it was fairer. I just...” Harry dropped the pretence of the book and pulled Ariana to his side. Her shoulders shook and he knew she was crying silently, always one afraid to show her weaknesses. He hugged her tightly, let her head rest against him._

_“I know it’s hard, Ari, but it will get easier. We’re family. We always will be. And, I’ve heard what you said about the cookies. That’s a ‘not cool-dad’ moment.” Ariana giggled helplessly at Harry’s embarrassing terminology. “I’m going to try to be more fair, Ari, now that I know you feel that way. And you’re right, I need to split my time better. You’re just as important as Teddy, I promise.”_

_“Thanks Dad,” she whispered, holding him just as close as he was holding her._

_-o-_

_Ginny high-fived him before bed, grinning wildly, “You rocked that!”_

_Harry smiled, a little smug, “I so did!” They cheered like peppy high-school girls, jumping about with excitement._

_-o-_

 

A large purple giant wriggled on his seat. His butt had gone numb from sitting so long, and that usually meant he needed to actually do things for himself. _Ah, I can wait a bit, no hurry_.

 

The broken Seer fell silent on the ground before him. _Dimension travellers... how **delicious**_.

 

-o-


	30. The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eeeep

_The Hunt For The Sceptre - Part 4_

Lights off to save power. An electric chill awash in the room from the glow of city thunder outside. His blinds were shut. Walls painted with new glossy work. The room was redone but his bed still smelt of mould. He’d been so preoccupied with his Defeat Darkness plot that he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking his new kitchen appliances. Harry had bought a juicer. It was all very self indulgent.

 

Sat on the old rugged couch which if transfigured into an equivalent person would end up a salt-and-pepper haired supported of plaid and farming. He’d named the rug “Sammy”, it was that sort of day; not slow, but quick enough that time had become too muddled for his brain to process. Harry’s hand felt clammy. Was it hot in here or was that just him? He couldn’t tell. He hadn’t been out on an ‘adventure’ in so long and that buzzing feeling in his fingertips had begun to form. Just like before he slid down that pipe to go mano y mano with the person-eating out-for-blood basilisk or even before the grand old duel with the Mouldy Wart himself, with those lost crazed eyes and explosions of ferocious light; his head began to swim and his skin began to heat up, as if in preparation. He was a ball of nerves, jittery yet excited. It _had_ been such a long time. Part of him worried that he’d be out of “vigilantism practice” but mostly he was raring to go, knowing he _needed_ to help this new world. This new _home_.

 

He gripped the phone tightly, slapped it over his ear hole.

 

“Yeah, Harry?” Mike’s tinny voice echoed through the line.

 

“H-hey...” Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to explain all of this. Mike deserved to know, he did, but he’d kept so much from him that he worried this might do irreparable damage to the trust of their friendship. Of course, continuing to keep this secret worked counterintuitively to building trust... and he really didn’t want Michael to forbid him from galloping off to protect the world, as his best friend would no doubt try once he knew how mortally dangerous this mission was. After all, it wasn’t every day that you went one-on-one with a literal _god_ and came out the other side unscathed.

 

Er. How to break this to him....

 

“I’m going on holiday for a few days, and I thought I’d tell you so you don’t worry,” Harry winced, knowing his voice wasn’t _very_ convincing. He sounded like a shaky record.

 

“Uhuh.” Mike said slowly.

 

“Yep, just, er, packing my bags and getting ready to go,” Harry fibbed, having no intention whatsoever to pack his bags for this crazy trip... actually, he probably needed to do that.

 

“What about Mr. Stark?” Mike asked unfalteringly.

 

“ _What?_ ” Harry shrieked, all of a sudden hit with dread that Mike had discovered his plan so easily. _What the heck_ Harry thought _I used to be able to lie until the crows came home to the Dursleys..._

 

“Yes, Harry,” Mike sounded patient albeit a tad condescending, “Mr. Stark, remember? The man you work for who has been doling you out enough cash to last you until you’re seventy.”

 

Realisation washed over him like a wave and Harry began to pace around his living room.

 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Harry said, ever so articulate. “Mr. Stark is... also going away.” He finished lamely, plucking at the skin on the back of his hand, splenetic.

 

“Uhuh.” Mike said once more, sounded about as convinced as a caught-you-red-handed McGonagall.

 

“Uhuh,” Harry said, feeling more than a little lost.

 

“Uhuh. Well,” Mike said cheerfully, “I’ve got a few hours left at the ‘rink. Love you, babe. Have fun on your bender.”

 

“Mi- _ike_ ,” Harry whined, “It’s not a bender!”

 

“Uhuh. Su-ure. Just don’t get too drunk and don’t hurt yourself. Spend your money wisely.”

 

***** Future interlude (haha, I can't get enough of parent!Harry, reminds me why I started this fic)

 

 

“How many cookies did you eat, Teddy?”

 

“Uh.... Five?”

 

“Hm. Okay. There were twenty cookies in the jar. You ate five. So, that means there _should_ be fifteen cookies left. Do you want to guess how many cookies are left, Teddy?”

 

“Uh.... Fifteen?”

 

“No, Teddy. There are _no_ cookies left. Let me repeat; how many cookies did you eat, Teddy?”

 

“Um... Six?”

 

“Teddy, what happened to the other cookies?”

 

“A... fairy got them. All of them. I only had seven, I swear!”

 

“Seven, is it? I thought you said _six_ just a moment ago.”

 

“Uh... Uh... Maybe I had... eight?”

 

“Eight?”

 

“Or... ten?”

 

“Ten, Teddy? Are you sure? Is that your _final_ answer?”

 

“Erm... Twen-ty?”

 

“Okay, Ted. Let’s go talk to mama. Thanks for being honest with me.”


End file.
